


What We Pretend To Be

by ifitwasribald



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Background Jane/Thor, Body Horror, Contemplation of Suicide, It's not like a horror movie or anything, M/M, Super Soldier Serum, by which I mean involuntary exposure to the serum, depends on the horror movie I guess, eventual bruce/tony, minor Natasha/Rhodey, teamfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:44:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 100,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifitwasribald/pseuds/ifitwasribald
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Good becomes great, bad becomes worse.</i>  But people are a hell of a lot more complicated than good and bad.  When half of the team is dosed with the super soldier serum, they all have to grapple with their own pasts and futures.  But for better or for worse, they’re all in it together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Begin at the Beginning (or as close as you can get)

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for the [amazing prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/13316.html?thread=31731204#t31731204) by jaune_chat over on the kinkmeme. I hope I can do it justice.

Maria’s day started off so well. She logged seven consecutive hours of sleep—nearly a record—and there was fresh coffee in the mess when she got there. She even managed to clear enough time in her schedule to work with some of the newer agents for most of the morning. Her presence may have scared the hell out of them, but they hid it well and made good progress. 

A few urgent reports came in around noon, and she had to throw herself into making up for the incompetence of an agent who really should have known better, but things didn’t start going to hell in earnest until nearly fifteen hundred hours. Again, nearly a record.

But by eighteen thirty hours any gains she managed that morning are wiped clean, and by nineteen forty-five hours she’s ready for early retirement. Just another twenty years to go.

She sighs. The sludge in her coffee cup burns as it goes down, but the heat keeps her from tasting it much, so all things considered it’s just as well. They’ve averted three minor catastrophes, but the latest report presages a headache like they haven’t had in weeks.

She triple confirms with the terrified agent offering his report, and in the end comes out with no certainty at all, but dark enough suspicions that they can’t wait.

She takes a breath, taps off her com, and crosses the bridge to Fury's station. "Reports suggest that the robots may be Doom's, Sir."

"'May'?" By his voice, his day isn’t going any better than hers.

"No confirmation yet. Our people haven't able to get close enough to get a good look. But the technology is close enough that we're proceeding under the assumption that Doom is involved. And after what happened last time—"

"I remember."

"We need full deployment. Four teams, five if we can get them. Rogers on point."

"No. Time to bring in the big guns. Rogers works better with them anyway."

"Respectfully, Sir, Rogers has worked with them all of twice, and we don’t have a lot of time. How do we even know they'll come in again?"

"They'll come in.”

“You always say that. One of these days we’re going to need them and they aren’t going to come.”

“Not today. Pull Barton and Romanoff out of Kiev and get Rogers to bring in Banner and Thor. Coulson will handle Stark."

Maria breathes a sigh of relief. At least a little of the morning’s luck is still with her. "As long as I don't have to," she mutters. Fury gives her a dark look and even she isn’t immune to that. She adds a belated “Sir,” and returns to her post. 

~

The day is fine and fair, the sky a cloudless blue, and the sun warm on Thor's shoulders. An excellent day to go out in the world and enjoy the pleasures of it.

Jane, unfortunately, disagrees. Her preparations for some significant celestial event were interesting for the first few days, but eventually he grew tired of following her calculations. Texts and films on the great leaders of this realm kept him busy for several days more, but on this fine day he must admit, to himself at least, that he is growing bored.

The call from Captain Rogers is therefore most welcome, and he readily agrees to join his once and future comrades in the defense of the great and fabled city of Detroit. 

Provided that someone will tell him how to get there.

~

"OK."

"OK?"

"OK, I'll go handle Doom's hunks of junk. No, strike that, that definitely came out wrong. I'll deal with his little doombots or whatever ridiculous crap he's come up with now. I heard how he kicked your asses last month, and I've magnanimously decided to give you guys a hand."

"You're bored, aren't you?"

"Or death's just made you persuasive. How is that whole 'dead' thing working out for you anyway?"

Coulson's eyeroll is almost audible. "Greatly exaggerated, as I've explained. Repeatedly."

"And yet the exaggerator hasn't apologized once."

"He's got nothing to apologize for, Stark. Move the hell on. You'll be in Detroit by zero nine hundred tomorrow?"

"For my favorite corpse, sure thing."

~

Bruce eyes the buzzing phone warily. Honestly, most days it slips his mind that the thing's a phone at all, and not just an ultra-portable lab computer. The number isn't one he recognizes, and his phone doesn't know it either. Which narrows things down only as far as "not Tony Stark." And even that's only because Stark gave him the gadget with his contact information already programmed in, complete with glamour photo and Black Sabbath ring tone.

He considers answering, but before he makes up his mind the call goes to voicemail. He shrugs and turns back to his notes, but the phone is still for only a moment before the buzzing starts up again.

"Fuck," he mutters, and thumbs the accept button.

"Doctor Banner." Steve Rogers' face shows up on the screen, serious but warm. Bruce belatedly realizes that he'll be visible on the other end. Fucking StarkPhone. He runs a hand through his hair and tries to remember the last time he looked into a mirror.

"Captain," he returns.

"How's Greenland?"

Fucking Stark. When he gave Bruce the device, after the second time Bruce turned down an extended stay at Stark Tower, Stark swore up down and sideways that S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't track it. "The phone?"

"What?"

"The phone's how you know I'm in Greenland?"

"I doubt it. You know S.H.I.E.L.D.’s in the habit of keeping tabs on you."

He does know that. "Greenland's fine," he answers. "Peaceful. I'm making progress."

"Glad to hear it, Doctor. But right now we need you."

"Me? Or the other guy?"

Rogers glances away from the phone, and then back at it. "Both." It's not convincing.

"What is it this time?"

"It looks like Vic Doom's robots are showing up in Detroit. They're nothing we can't handle yet, but the last time we dealt with him things went bad, fast. We could use some heavy hitters."

"You've got Stark?"

"Yeah."

"And Thor?"

"Yeah."

"Then you don't need me. Either of me."

"Respectfully, Doctor, you didn't see how bad it got the last time."

"Respectfully, Captain, you don't seem to remember how bad things got with the other guy the last time I brought him 'round to play."

Rogers’ answer is quieter. "We all understand that that was personal for you. And the Hulk did fine. He didn't kill anybody who wasn't trying to kill us."

"Right. He gets a shiny gold star for that. But what he— what _I_ did to the airport, not to mention the highway, and—"

Rogers cuts him off. "You won't back up the team because the other guy did some structural damage? They're pretty good at fixing highways these days."

"Do you have any idea how important infrastructure is in the developing world? How critical for distributing food, medicine?"

"Well, you're in luck, because Detroit's pretty well developed."

"Sorry Cap. I stay put this time."

Rogers pauses, as if he's trying to think of another, better argument. But then he examines Bruce's eyes, and seems to think better of it. "You'll be missed." It's apparently a farewell, because the line goes dead before Bruce can reply.

He puts down the phone and turns back to his work.

~

The trip from Kiev is a bitch, even in a quinjet. There's plenty of room for Clint's workout routines, and plenty of briefing materials to keep him busy after that, but he's still relieved when Natasha sets the jet down at the rendezvous point on the outskirts of the city.

Coulson's eyes flick up from his tablet the instant the doors open, and Clint feels a warm rush of relief to see the man standing.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asks by way of greeting.

"Good to see you too."

Natasha smiles. "I hardly recognized you without all the IV lines. You're cleared to be out here?"

Coulson gives her a hard look, and she nods. That he's here is answer enough. He checks his watch, thumbs the unlock button for his sedan, and gestures for them to get in.

Natasha takes shotgun while Clint swings into the backseat, and they're off.

"What's the situation?" Natasha's voice is all business now.

"Still no confirmation on the precise nature of the robotics. They're presumed to be Doom's, but we haven't seen any other sign of him. ‘Bots have been spotted in four discrete locations around the city, but the primary area of concentration is the riverfront. We've got the tourists cleared away and plan to move in once we're all here."

"Who's 'we'?"

Clint flinches a little at Natasha's tone. He doesn't love working with new people either, but it's a necessary evil.

"Rogers is heading this one up, and Stark and Thor will be joining us shortly. The rest of the team's backup. Rogers picked them out. They're good people."

"Banner?"

Clint can't tell if she's hoping for a yes or a no.

"Not coming."

She nods, and he still isn't sure whether that was the answer she wanted.

~

"Captain Rogers!"

Steve looks up from his map to see Thor striding into the tourist office they've commandeered for a temporary HQ on the waterfront. "Good to see you." He stands and holds out his hand, which, after a moment's hesitation, Thor grasps in an exceptionally firm handshake. "How's New Mexico treating you?"

"It is... different from Asgard. A fine place, but I was pleased to come here to be of assistance to you and to S.H.I.E.L.D."

"We're glad to have you. You've been briefed on Doom?"

"Agent Sitwell told me of your previous encounter. We will have better luck this day."

"I sure hope so." He heads for the door and motions for Thor to follow. "So far the 'bots have mostly stuck to this area. They're coming in and out of the river there," he points at a section of railing, where a couple of roughly human-shaped robots appeared to be keeping guard. "We don't know why yet."

A silver sedan rolls up next to the security cordon, and Agents Romanoff, Barton, and Coulson emerge. Steve waves them over, smiling to see them in spite of the circumstances.

"Stark here yet?" are the first words from Romanoff's mouth.

She gets to the point. He can respect that. "Not yet." He turns to Coulson. "He said he'd be here by zero nine hundred?"

Coulson nods. "Which was eight minutes ago, I know. You've all met him." He shrugs, as if to say that Tony Stark is not his problem. Steve wishes he could do the same, but he has to admit that the man will be useful under the circumstances.

As if he were just waiting to be missed—and Steve doesn't put it past him to be listening in on his com for just that—a soft roar of repulsors echoes off the river as Stark swoops down to fly inches over the water's surface, leaving a trail of disturbed water behind him and pulling up to clear the railing at the last possible moment.

He drops to his feet next to the group and raises his visor. "We good to go?"

Steve suppresses his irritation. The job's the job, and just because Stark's an obnoxious bastard doesn't change the fact that he's very good at what he does. "We're setting up a surveillance perimeter," Steve explains. "Cameras above and below the water line, and agents around the city to help us track each individual 'bot whenever it leaves this area. We're assuming their behavior will tell us what Doom is up to, and then we can come up with a plan."

"OK, cool, well, you do that, and I'm going to go poke one with a stick." Stark's visor slides down and he turns towards the water.

"Do we really need to have this argument every time we work together?"

Stark is already moving when he answers. "Nope. I'd be fine with it if you'd just let me do it my way."

Steve mentally reviews the options for keeping Stark from doing as he damn well pleases and comes up with nothing. Shit. He turns to the others. "Romanoff, Barton, cover him. Thor, give Barton a lift up there," he points at the roof of the tourist structure, "and then get back down here for when Stark's brilliant plan goes to hell."

~

The robots don't move as he approaches. They don't appear to notice him at all, though Tony knows better than to read into the body language of a hunk of electronics.

"JARVIS, get their schematics."

"Yes Sir."

A rough outline of the machines appears on the interior of his visor. They're reasonably sophisticated, but relatively speaking they're lightweights. Not a lot of firepower there unless they're better at fooling his scanners than they ought to be.

"Hey you." He gives one an experimental punch to the shoulder. It rocks away and then regains its balance. "What's your deal?" He hits it again, harder, and again it reacts to the blow and returns to its feet.

It's like one of those clown punching bags that won't stay down until you're really pissed off and hit it hard enough to pop it and let all the air out.

Not that he's ever done that.

"Nothing," he reports in over the com. "Nobody's home. Shall I laser one open?"

"You're asking me?" Rogers answers.

"I'm not above seeking input. You're the one with the plan."

But then, faster than his eyes can follow, one of the 'bots shoots out a long, thin dart, and sharp pain blooms in his shoulder.

"Fuck, what the hell—" That should not have happened. No way should that robot be able to pierce his suit. Its aim is good, he has to give it that. The shoulder joint's weaker than most of the armor, but it still never should have been possible.

He cuts both 'bots in two with a quick swipe of his laser, and then divides them into quarters and eights for good measure, and looks up to see if more are on their way.

The shoulder stings but it doesn't feel like real damage. "JARVIS, status."

"The suit remains fully functional, but the air seal is damaged and cannot be repaired at the moment."

"So no jaunts into outer space this time."

"Such a venture would be inadvisable, Sir."

No more 'bots appear, and Tony glances down again. A vague haze of red smoke oozes out of the 'bots' remains. "Fuck. JARVIS, analysis."

"The gas appears to be a nerve toxin, Sir. I advise moving clear."

"On it." Tony takes off into the air. "There's some kind of nerve gas coming off of this thing," he tells the others. "JARVIS can relay findings to the backup team."

"We're on it." Coulson's voice remains calm. "Can you contain the gas?"

"My suit's compromised—I can't get near it without exposure."

"Get back here."

But then three more 'bots join the first, oozing a greenish gas that mixes with the red to form a brown haze that floats over the whole of the waterfront. "JARVIS, what's this one?"

"Readings inconclusive."

"Shit." By the time Tony lands near the SHIELD equipment, he can barely see three feet in front of his face, and he doesn't know where the others are.

"Stark! Mr. Stark!"

He can just make out a young woman in a SHIELD uniform.

"Give me your arm." She holds up a syringe. "Anti-toxin. Based on your readings we think this one will counteract the effects of the gas."

"JARVIS, make a hole."

The arm of the suit rearranges itself until his shoulder is covered only by his thin flight suit.

She jabs the syringe in fast, and he can feel the liquid burning in his veins. She pulls it out, but before he can move away there's another one. The second needle feels huge, and hurts more than the robot's dart did.

"Jesus, you people have got to get better medical equipment." She shrugs, unconcerned by his objection. "Thanks." The suit reassembles over his arm and he takes off, back into the center of the smog.

~

As soon as the gas starts billowing up above the riverfront, Natasha pulls a long patch off her suit and wraps it around her face. It's a stopgap—you can only make a filter so good if you plan to wear it around day in and day out just in case you might need it—but it will do for now.

She's got no idea how to contain the gas. She hopes to hell someone does—if they're lucky, Rogers' handpicked team includes a crack engineer or two. Then again, the best engineer they've got is the one that got them into the whole mess to begin with.

"Stark," she shouts into the com, trying to be heard over the din. "I'll go after the rest of the 'bots, but you've got to keep the gas out of the city."

"Romanoff's right," Rogers chimes in. "You're our best bet on that one."

"What the hell am I supposed to do, shoot at it?"

"You're the genius," Natasha answers, "you figure it out."

She ducks under the cordon, but a hand on her shoulder pulls her back. She grabs it by the wrist and twists down.

"Wait, wait, please." The woman lets her arm go limp in surrender. "I'm sorry, Agent. I needed to get your attention."

Natasha curses Coulson under her breath for letting Rogers pick the backup team. She hates working with people she doesn't know. "Never grab an agent in the field without warning," she spits. "It's unprofessional and it's dangerous. What do you need?"

The woman—a medic, by her uniform—holds up a pair of syringes. "It's what you need. Anti-toxin, for the gas. That mask isn't going to protect you."

She gives the medic a hard look. She fucking hates injections. Clint calls it a phobia, but he’s wrong. Phobias are disproportionate to the danger involved, and she’s been injected with enough chemical cocktails to know perfectly well what the dangers are. She wants to take a deep breath, but recalls in time that she should be breathing shallowly to take in as little of the toxin as possible. And with that in mind, she knows the anti-toxin is the lesser of two evils. She nods. “Do it fast.”

The woman does, administering both shots with a brisk efficiency that Natasha appreciates. She's about to turn back towards the water when she hears a familiar footfall. "Clint, over here."

"Natasha." His voice carries relief, and she winces for him. She knows too well how much he hates working blind. "Stark making any progress on dealing with the gas?"

"You know what I know."

"Agent Barton," the medic pipes up. "You need this." She pulls another pair of syringes out of her bag.

"What is it?"

"Anti-toxin. For the gas," she repeats.

"That was fast."

"We were lucky. Stark's scans suggest that our standard broad spectrum drugs should work."

"We have standard broad spectrum anti-toxin? Why does nobody tell me these things?”

"You can file a complaint later." She grabs his arm and injects him with both syringes in quick succession. "Good luck," she says, and darts away.

"Come on," Natasha urges. "We can at least immobilize the rest of the 'bots while Stark works something out."

~

The robots are puny things, and they snap under his hammer like twigs. The dark fog makes it difficult to find new targets, and Thor wonders if they've run out of enemies already.

He hears footsteps behind him, but not the metallic clang of the robots. "Who's there?"

"Romanoff and Barton," Agent Romanoff's clear voice comes through, though she remains hidden from his sight in the fog. "How many did you get?"

"I have slain five, and poor foes they were."

"We've taken down three."

"Do any remain?"

"That's the sixty-five thousand dollar question."

"Coulson," that must be Agent Barton—Thor can hear him a few yards away and over the communicator as well. "What was the count on the 'bots?"

"We were able to track ten," Agent Coulson answers. "No telling if there were more."

"What have you got on the underwater cams?"

"Eight came up that way, after Stark destroyed the first two. Nothing after that."

"Perhaps we have defeated them all," Thor suggests.

"We should be so lucky," Agent Coulson mutters.

"Hey Goldilocks," Stark calls over the communicator.

No one answers.

"Thor, Goldilocks is you."

Thor frowns. Stark's references tend to elude him. "What do you require?"

"A storm would be good. Get some wind going, clear out this smoke."

"And disperse nerve toxin over half of Detroit?" Captain Rogers objects.

"Nope. There is no nerve toxin. The 'bots created a kind of chemical mirage for the suit's sensors. JARVIS just finished reanalyzing the data. The gas is nothing but colored smoke. Wouldn't want to breath it for fun, but dispersed into the atmosphere it's harmless. So, Thor, make with the thunder-god bit?"

Thor raises Mjölnir and calls down the fury of the storm. Lightning arcs to meet him, illuminating the fog with an eerie brownish glow. Winds stir, and he feels himself at one with the skies of this foreign world as they swirl around him and sweep the foul vapors away.

When the air clears, he lowers the hammer and the winds slow to a light breeze.

Agent Barton gives a low whistle. "That is never gonna stop being cool."

~

Phil paces back and forth, letting his fingertips slide over the smooth finish of his sedan. "Sitwell, report."

"Still nothing on any of the cameras."

"Jones?"

"No sightings anywhere on the West Side."

"Young?"

"Nothin' on the East Side."

"Freeman?"

"All quiet on the police frequencies."

Phil looks up to find Rogers just feet away.

"What's the situation, Sir?" Rogers asks.

"By all indications, we're in the clear."

Stark lands beside them and puts up his visor. "That was anticlimactic."

"So, any idea what the hell that was about?" Barton calls out as he, Romanoff, and Thor approach.

"Not as yet."

"I'll tell you one thing," Stark offers. "Doom did not make those robots. Shoddy workmanship, poor design. Processing systems weren't bad, but nothing compared to the specs I've seen on the doombots."

Phil nods. Given how the "battle" turned out he's not surprised by the assessment. But what the hell actually happened he still doesn't know. Nothing about the incident makes sense. "We'll leave a team here to monitor the situation. The quinjet's a couple of miles west of here—Barton, Romanoff, Rogers, you're with me. Stark, Thor, you want to meet us at the quinjet or on the helicarrier?"

"I think I'll take the scenic route." Stark's visor closes over his face. "Coming with, Fabio?"

Phil looks over to Thor, who doesn't respond to either of them.

"Fabio is also you," Stark informs him.

Thor gives him a frustrated look, and Phil can sympathize. "Are these naming conventions common to your realm, or are they an affectation of Stark's?"

"Stark's," Barton and Romanoff answer in unison.

"Definitely Stark's," Rogers agrees.

"They're an _affectionate_ affectation."

Thor just looks at him again, as if to say that he isn't buying it. Phil knew there was a reason he likes the man. "Very well." He turns back to Phil. "We will meet you on the helicarrier."

~

The ride on the quinjet is quiet and short. Clint idly rubs his arm as he watches the others disembark onto the flight deck of the helicarrier. He pauses at the door, and forces himself to follow. The helicarrier's been repaired, of course, but it still bears the scars from his—from Loki's—attack, if you know where to look.

Clint knows where to look.

He forces his body into a relaxed swagger as they make their way into the belly of the beast, through the hallways and into the conference room where Fury and Hill already wait for them.

"What the ever loving hell happened down there?" Fury demands before they've even seated themselves.

"Still working on that one, boss," Coulson tells him.

"It felt like a decoy," Natasha suggests.

"Yeah," Rogers agrees, "but for what?"

Hill looks up from her tablet. "I've had our people analyzing all our other operations, and so far nothing. But decoy is still our best guess." She returns her attention to the screen.

Clint surveys the room. "Stark and Thor aren't here yet? I figured they'd beat us here for sure."

"Miss me already?" Tony swings around the door frame and into the room, wearing his flight suit and absently flipping a little robot part between the fingers of one hand. Thor follows behind him, Mjölnir clutched tight in his fist.

"What took you so long?" Fury's tone is dangerous.

Stark shrugs. "I was hungry, and turns out Thor'd never had Taco Bell. The cultural experiences, those are what's important. Besides, the food you guys have up here is really shitty."

"Shittier than Taco Bell?" Clint objects. Then he considers for a moment. "Yeah, actually, that's fair."

"Just sit your asses down. Rogers, report. What happened?"

"Sir, when I arrived the robots were primarily stationary, with limited movement into and out of the river near our position. Once the team arrived, Mr. Stark investigated to determine the nature of the 'bots. Given his expertise on the subject, that seemed like a wise start." Stark raised an eyebrow at that, but didn't interrupt. "I understand one of the 'bots damaged Stark's suit, and, after Stark destroyed two of them, they began to emit what seemed to be poisonous gas. We cleared the perimeter to keep any of our operatives from being affected. Thor, Barton, and Romanoff then dispatched the remaining targets, while Stark determined that the gas was nontoxic. Thor cleared the air, and we searched the area to confirm that no identifiable hostiles remained."

"And why the hell did you send our people into what you thought was nerve gas?"

"We got the anti-toxin," Clint told him. "We were fine."

Hill looks up. "What anti-toxin?"

Clint shrugs. "How should I know? The standard one, I guess. The medic said that it matched the specs from Stark's readings."

"We don't have a standard anti-toxin. We've tried, but our agents deal with so many chemical threats we haven't come up with an adequate broad-spectrum drug."

"So what did that medic give us?"

The room is silent for a long moment.

"Well, get him in here," Fury stands and starts pacing the room. "Was it Brooks or Torres?"

"Neither. It was a woman."

Rogers gives him a sharp look. "There weren't any female medics on the team."

Metal clatters on metal, and every head turns to Stark, who's let the robot piece fall from his fingers. He doesn't even look down.

"You too?" Clint asks.

Stark nods.

Clint brings a hand up to press against the sore spot from the injection. Suddenly he can feel a tight, venomous oddness snaking out along his arm, pumping through his bloodstream. He takes a breath. It’s only his imagination. He felt fine a minute ago. Whatever he’s feeling is just nerves—it’s absolutely not poison eating away at his flesh from the inside out. He suppresses a shudder and looks around.

Natasha doesn't move, and her face remains calm, but he can see the tension in her shoulders.

Coulson rubs at his forehead. "Who else?"

"Me." Natasha keeps her voice carefully even.

"Rogers? Thor?"

"Not I," Thor answers, and Rogers shakes his head.

Coulson speaks into his com. "Sitwell, need you to look into something. It's urgent. Find out if any of our people received an 'anti-toxin' or another drug during the operation. And track down any reports of a woman posing as one of our medics." He looks up. "Description?"

"She was blonde. Cute in a rip-off-her-glasses-and-let-down-her-hair kind of way."

Natasha shoots Stark an irritated look. "Mid-twenties, 5'2"-5'3", 125 pounds or so, straight dark blonde hair pulled back, oval face, no eyewear, minimal make-up, no major distinguishing features visible."

"You copy that, Sitwell?" Coulson asks, and then nods, apparently satisfied by the response.

"Now get your asses to medical," Fury growls. "Hill, go with them. Coulson, keep tabs on the ground operation—get me anything you can on this woman."

Both agents nod, and Hill rises.

Clint drags himself to his feet, and gives Natasha what he hopes is a confident look. "Mystery injections, all part of the job, right?"

"Right," she agrees.

~

Unasked, Steve follows the others down to medical. He was point on this operation, and they're his people, more or less, so he's responsible. He's almost the last out the door, but Thor remains in the conference room, staring out the window.

"You coming with?" he asks. "For moral support?"

Thor nods, as if relieved. "Gladly."

By the time they reach the infirmary, Romanoff, Barton, and Stark are each in their own screened off area, each with a different doctor performing an examination. An agent rushes by with a tray of neatly labeled blood samples, and Steve almost trips himself trying to get out of his way.

The examination takes what feels like forever, though Steve's watch suggests that only twenty-five minutes pass before all three dress and pull back the screening curtains.

The doctors confer, and turn back. One of them, silver haired and with a confident posture that suggests command, looks at Hill and gives a tiny shrug of her shoulders. "Exams show nothing out of the ordinary. We're still waiting on the blood work, but vitals are normal. Two of them have a little swelling at the injection site, but other than that there don't appear to be any ill effects."

Hill nods and repeats that into her com for Fury's benefit. "How long until we get results back on the blood test?"

The doctor frowns. "It's taking longer than usual. But it shouldn't be more than a few minutes now."

Hill nods again.

The room falls silent, except for a rhythmic drumming. Rogers glances over to see that Barton's fingers are tapping out the pattern on the side of his cot.

Barton seems to feel the eyes on him, and he snatches his hand back. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Steve assures him. He tries to think of something else to say—some small talk to make or some important question to distract them. Nothing comes to mind.

Everyone starts when the door opens, and a woman in a lab coat walks in.

She looks up, surveying the room. Her mouth opens and then closes again. She clears her throat and looks down at her notes. "It looks like— it looks as though all three subjects," here she glances up at them, and thinks better of her wording. "All three of you appear to have received an injection of what's known as the super soldier serum."

If it was quiet before, it's deafeningly so now. Even the usual ambient noise of the helicarrier—the faint whir of the engines, the hum of computer fans, the distant footfalls of agents going about their duties—seems dampened, unreal.

Steve's mouth is dry. He licks his lips before speaking. "You're sure?"

The researcher shakes her head. "No. Not at all. The serum is incredibly complex, and our data on it are limited. But if it's not the serum, it's something we've never seen before."

Steve nods slowly, and looks around the room. He can't read anything on their faces, even Stark's. He wonders if there's something he ought to say. There probably is, but he doesn't know what. He looks down at his feet, and then up again. "Excuse me, I need to make a call."

~

It's snowing again, and Bruce has put aside his work to watch the flakes drift lazily down outside his window. A cup of tea in his hands sends slow tendrils of steam rising into the air, as if in counterbalance to the falling snow. He feels peaceful in a way that has been so rare in his life, before the incident or after it.

The sensation is flawed only by a faint guilt at his refusal to help Rogers and the others. But he was right, they don't need him. He's where he needs to be right now.

As if invited by that thought, the phone buzzes again, and this time Bruce picks it up quickly.

"Doctor Banner." Rogers' face appears again on the little screen. There's a strain in his features that was absent just yesterday. "We need you."

Bruce opens his mouth, but whether to agree or object he doesn't know.

Rogers speaks again before Bruce can do either. "You, not the other guy. Doctor Banner— Bruce. There's been an incident."


	2. We All Have Burdens  (some to carry, some to bury)

If there were one place in the world to which Bruce thought he would never willingly return, it would, without doubt, be the helicarrier.

So much for that.

S.H.I.E.L.D. agents pass him as he follows Rogers down the twisting hallways to the lab. None meet his eyes, though he catches a couple of glares from agents who apparently think he isn't looking. He should have expected as much, or worse. He focuses on breathing--in and out and in again in a slow, careful rhythm. It works right up until he passes through the lab doors, but then his stomach rebels, and for an instant he can feel bile rise in the back of his throat.

The room is just as it was. Of course it is—a ship like this doesn't leave much room for design improvisation. Why would anyone take the trouble to vary the specs?

Bruce reaches out to the wall to steady himself, his legs weak, shaky, as if he can still feel the explosion that tore this very floor out from under him and took all his control with it.

He remembers his breathing, and focuses on it again. The air is stale but cool, tasting of metal and plastic and faintly of jet exhaust.

"I was wondering when you'd show up."

Bruce looks up to see Stark in the far corner, his face half hidden by one of the displays. "Heard you could use a hand."

"Nah, I'm good. I just figured you'd want to be here to welcome me into the super-serum club. Is there a secret handshake?"

Bruce's lips quirk in what he realizes is his first smile since he answered Rogers' call.

"No secret handshake, Stark," Rogers tells him.

"You two are hopeless. We're going to need a secret handshake. And matching jackets. And possibly a club house."

"You good here, Doctor?" Rogers glances back at the door. "I want to go see Agent Coulson, find out what he's figured out so far."

"Yeah," Bruce agrees. "Sure." He takes three careful steps to the nearest display screen, and brings up the readings from the blood work. He pulls a thumb drive out of his pocket and slots it into the nearest port, watching as his own files pop up next to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s.

He hears footsteps—Stark moving to stand just behind his shoulder.

Bruce points at the screen. "Your blood, Romanoff's, Barton's, mine, Rogers’." He shrinks those windows and pulls up another set. "And before our respective incidents."

"We're not as far from baseline as you and Rogers."

"Right," Bruce agrees. "My working theory is that the gamma radiation is necessary to catalyze the serum and—" He can't describe what happens then. Couldn't describe it even if he knew, which, he reminds himself, he doesn't. "In any case, this may be a purely cosmetic similarity to the serum. And even if it isn't, I don't have any hard data on how it will affect the body without some form of gamma radiation."

"So we're flying blind."

Bruce sighs. "I'm sorry. My research on the serum was all pretty focused on my particular case. It's going to take me a couple of days to sort out the implications of yours."

Stark makes an exaggerated sound of disgust. "Biology," he mutters. "Give me machines every time."

Bruce ignores that, and continues to study the data. "Did Romanoff get the same dose as you and Barton?"

"We think so. We each got two syringes worth, and that's as precise as we're going to get until we track down the chick that did it."

"She's not as far off baseline as the two of you. But," he points, "there and there she's significantly further from normal readings than either of you are. Still not as abnormal as Rogers or I, but it's strange." He shakes his head. That can wait. "I'll need to model some scenarios."

"Right. Want a hand?"

"Sounds good." He sketches out what he needs, and they get to work.

Apart from a couple of hours here in this room, Bruce hasn't collaborated with anyone in years, and he's surprised to find that the rhythms of a good partnership return as comfortably as if they never left.

He'd almost let himself—no, be honest Banner—almost _made_ himself forget the kind of mind Stark possessed. His hands flow over the display screen like an intricate ballet, examining the molecular model this way and that, cycling through variables and discussing them with wit and insight. All the while he almost absentmindedly writes whole new programs to analyze the data and spit them back out arranged just the way Bruce would have wanted if he’d taken the time to think about it.

And this isn't Stark's primary field. Hell, Bruce doesn't think it's even his tertiary, quaternary, or quintary field.

It feels good. It feels so good that he nearly forgets the helicarrier around them, and the looming threat that necessitated the research in the first place. Until one promising model turns out to go nowhere, and Bruce curses but Stark goes silent, staring at the screen with stilled hands and his lower lip between his teeth.

Bruce turns to look at him, guiltily realizing that he's having fun while a horror that he knows all too well hangs over Stark's head. "You doing ok with this?"

Stark glances up at Bruce, then turns to face another display. "Are you kidding?" he scoffs, already busying himself with setting up a new model. "I'm getting super powers. It's gonna be awesome."

Bruce's chest feels tight. The air in here is terrible, and makes it hard for him to breathe.

The tremor in Stark's voice has nothing to do with it.

~

On any given day there is no shortage of cameras trained on Detroit's riverfront. That morning was no different, and S.H.I.E.L.D. has copies of every video feed recorded. But the infiltrator appears on none of them. She seems to have appeared after the colored smoke obscured the view from everywhere, and disappeared before it lifted. There's nothing, and it's infuriating and impossible.

Natasha had the woman in her grip, looked her up and down, cursed her. But in the end she accepted an injection from a woman she'd never laid eyes on, for no better reason than she wore a S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform. 

The thought ties her stomach in knots. She knows that S.H.I.E.L.D. made her soft. Knew it from the day she joined. But, she figured then, soft is better than dead.

Today she isn't so sure.

She's trying to resist the temptation to dwell on what's going to happen, but this isn’t a mission and realistically she doesn’t have anything more important to do. She swipes the useless video records off the screen and returns to the folder for S.H.I.E.L.D.'s intel on the so-called super soldier serum.

Considering the importance of the serum, the file is pathetically slim. Apart from the folders on Rogers and Banner, it's mostly rumor and innuendo and reams of data from a few dozen experiments that all went nowhere. Then there are the army trials of the late aughts, which the file acknowledges only through a series of almost entirely redacted memos and a handful of eyewitness accounts of the Abomination. It doesn't even name Blonsky, let alone Ross.

She knew Ross had pull with the WSC, but she didn't realize the magnitude of it until now.

The files don't include everything S.H.l.E.L.D. actually knows, of course, but it's unlikely Fury would take it kindly if she hacked into his personal files on the subject. Just now she really doesn't need to remind him how much of a team player she's not.

She calls up footage of the Hulk—early footage, from not long after Banner's experiment went so badly wrong. She forces her eyes to stay on the screen, watching every move, the push and pull of every tendon, and the sheer, empty rage in his eyes. She can take it for only a few minutes before her fingers jab at the close symbol on the screen, almost of their own accord.

She taps the Rogers folder, and brings up the bio. Stares at the before and after pictures, trying to imagine that so benign a transformation might be in store for her. She shakes her head to clear it of that foolish notion, and idly trails down to the details of Rogers' ridiculous USO tour.

She hears brisk but steady footsteps down the corridor and moves to close the window, but the processor chooses that moment to lag, and the window is still on screen when Rogers turns the corner.

He slows, and she glances back at him.

"I hate that photograph."

She can see why. The get-up they had him in was absurd—all the more so amid the phalanx of scantily clad dancers.

"Studying up on the serum, or are you just joining Coulson in my fanclub?"

She's glad he can laugh about that. She opens her mouth to gently brush him off, but what comes out is "what was it like?"

He glances down. "It hurt like hell," he finally answers. "But then, after, it was good. The serum's given me a lot. I've been able to do a lot of good with what it gave me. You will too."

"Thanks. For saying so." She doesn't believe him, of course—she's not a child. But she believes that he believes it, and she's surprised to find that calming. Whatever the hell is coursing through her veins right now, it helps to know that there's at least one person who doesn't expect it to be an unmitigated disaster.

However wrong he may be.

~

S.H.I.E.L.D.'s flying fortress lacks the grace of his father's palace or the poetry of the Bifröst, but Thor finds it impressive enough in its own way. The lives of these men and women are so short—they cannot know one another as he knows each and every one of the warriors who fight by his side in Asgard. Some have never met at all. And yet they work, and fight, as one, each a part of the greater concert of the whole. There is a beauty and a power to it that even Asgard cannot exceed.

But, absent a battle, he has no place in it. He reminds himself to be content to observe, to learn this alien style and find what might be of use in it.

He watches agents train in the gym for a time. They cast curious looks his way, but mostly go about their business. One unfortunate man can't seem to contain his curiosity, though, and his sparing partner takes him down three times in a row because he can't keep his mind on their contest. Thor moves on, a little unsettled to have disrupted the rhythms of the place.

He finds the dining hall next, and partakes of the available rations. He has to concur with Stark's low opinion of the food—even the strange envelopes of meat that Stark was so enamored of were better. The lack of ale or mead or cheerful company only emphasizes the paucity of the repast.

The agents nod to him politely. Some smile, and one even claps his back and thanks him for his help in Port-au-Prince. But all continue busily on their way, reading reports and conversing in low, serious tones. Perhaps another time this might be a place of joviality, but today, anyway, it is a place of business.

He leaves the dining hall and wanders down a corridor with no particular destination in mind. He passes a barracks door, a lab, a shooting range. This last is quieter than others he's seen. Most are a flurry of activity, each booth filled by an agent training on new weaponry or blowing off steam with an old favorite.

He pauses at the door for long enough to see that Agent Barton stands alone at one of the booths, a small firearm in his hands.

The sight is strange enough to tempt him into the room without considering whether his presence might disturb the man's solitude. "I had thought you preferred your bow," he notes.

"Yeah, well, apparently," Barton answers in a slow drawl, "people around here get a little twitchy at the sight of me with a bow." He fires off a volley, sending each bullet through the hole made by his first, and pauses to reload. "Not that me with a gun is exactly a welcome sight either. I think me in handcuffs and leg irons would be more their speed."

Thor frowns. "They must know that it was my brother who forced you to—"

Barton fires again, this time putting bullets through the edges of the bull's-eye in a neat, even pattern. "They know." He puts down the gun. "Doesn't change how they feel.” He shrugs. “I don't blame them. They're stuck with me now, though. I don't see Fury sending me on a mission any time soon."

"He worries for your health. Whatever you were injected with... I understand that no one yet knows what it will do."

"Nope," Barton agrees, picking the gun up again and tapping a pattern into a screen in the booth. The bull's-eye retreats, and is replaced by a smaller one which dances across the back of the range. "Could be Captain America—" he fires six times, and each shot goes through the dead center of the target "—or the Abomination."

"The Abomination? That creature was the product of the serum?"

"Yep. So I'm told." He hits the target another six times, and puts the gun down. "Lucky him. Lucky me." He shakes his head a little, as if to clear his thoughts. "You know how to use one of these?"

"I have seen it done, but I have not used one myself." He's never thought much of the firearms that so many in Midgard use. They seem a cowardly weapon, with no need for the strength and discipline of a warrior.

"Might come in handy," Barton suggests. "I can give you some pointers."

Thor hesitates. He can't quite imagine when he would be called upon to use a weapon such as this. But he finds he can’t refuse the man. "Teach me," he invites.

Barton launches into a description of that particular weapon, demonstrates how to load and unload, shows him the lock, the sights, the trigger. He hands it over and demonstrates posture, guiding Thor's hands and shoulders and legs in a way that tempts Thor to make a joke about Barton's designs. He refrains. Barton does not seem to be in a jovial mood.

He tries a few shots. The motion feels strained—unnaturally tight and crabbed and tense.

"That's good," Barton tells him. "All on the target. Just make sure you're aligning the sights, and when you pull the trigger, do it slowly so the pressure is even and your hand doesn't jerk." His voice is steadier, like he's saying something that he's said a hundred times before.

"Do you train agents in marksmanship?"

"Used to." He pulls his second gun out of its holster and moves to another booth, beginning to fire before Thor can respond.

Thor takes another couple of shots before putting down the weapon. "I do not like it," he decides.

Barton stops firing. "Yeah," he agrees, holstering the gun in his hand and then picking up the one he'd lent to Thor, giving it a once over before holstering it as well. "Me neither."

~

Nick tosses a couple of aspirin into his mouth and follows them with a swing of water. He regrets that it isn't whiskey, but for the headache he's dealing with he needs all his wits about him.

Hill's report glows on the screen in the dark of his office, telling him nothing he didn't know hours ago. Nothing from Coulson, nothing from Banner. What he has is a whole lot of nothing.

Except dread. Dread he has in spades. For Barton and Romanoff and even Stark. For the people on this boat who are in a danger that most of them know nothing about. For Banner, hauled back up here by his hair and under who knows what kinds of pressure. For all the agents everywhere else who are sure to get dragged into this whole mess sooner or later.

The safety of all those people is his problem. But it's not his job.

His job is to protect everybody else.

He can't wait any longer. He puts down the glass a little harder than he means to, and pushes through the door.

His expression as he strides through the hallways clearly warns the agents he passes to keep their distance—no one tries to interrupt him.

But when he enters Banner's lab, Banner and Stark barely look up from their display screen. Banner continues some explanation to Stark, of which Nick understands only about every third word.

"Report," he demands.

Stark glances back at Nick and then hops up to sit on one of the tables, facing Banner so that Nick can only see his back. "Are you one of his agents?" he asks Banner. "Because I'm definitely not one of his agents." He gestures vaguely. "The whole orders thing, really not working for me."

Banner's lips quirk, and Nick resists the temptation to turn his gaze heavenward and beg for strength. Instead he sucks in a breath through clenched teeth. "Doctor Banner," he amends, "I would appreciate any insight you could offer at this time."

Banner sobers. "I can't say much for sure. It does look like the serum. Without any form of gamma radiation it's possible that the effects will be minor or non-existent. But from what I can tell so far, it doesn't look like the serum will dissipate, so the risk of something setting off a transformation will probably be present for life."

"And what happens if there is a transformation?"

"I have no idea."

Nick gives him a hard look.

"I really don't, I'm sorry. Once we get to a decent research facility we can dig in and hopefully be able to narrow it down."

"Tell me what you need and I'll see that you get it. We're not going anywhere."

Tony launches himself off the table and onto his feet, and suddenly his face is inches from Nick’s. "The hell we're not. I am not staying in this flying death trap indefinitely.”

"Sit down, Stark. We're staying in the air until we've assessed the threat."

"Maybe you are, but I'm not."

Nick scowls. "I need your cooperation."

"Yeah, good luck with that." He claps Nick on the shoulder on his way towards the door.

Nick was afraid of this. But he didn't get where is he is by failing to plan for contingencies. "There are fifteen agents between you and your suit, Stark, all with orders to see that you don't get to it without my say so."

The way Stark stops short offers a certain satisfaction, but the look on his face when he turns almost hurts. "So. I'm a prisoner. Good times."

Nick doesn't bother to argue the point. He can be Stark's friend or he can do his job, and that isn't a hard choice. "We need you here until we figure out what's going on."

"Ooo, test subject, then."

He regards Stark evenly, and nods. "If necessary."

"Yeah," Banner drawls, "that's not going to work out well for anybody." 

Shit. _Shit._ In that exaggeratedly casual tone he hears the situation slip out of control, and wonders if it was ever really under his control to begin with. He taps his com. "Hill, I need Rogers and Thor in here immediately."

"Why not get the whole gang together?" Stark suggests, and activates his own ear piece. "Romanoff, Barton. Banner and Fury are hashing out what they're going to do with us lab rats—figured you might want to be here for that. We're in Banner's lab."

Banner looks up, and Nick's relieved to see that his eyes remain a deep brown. "I respect that you're trying to protect the public. And," he glances over at Stark, "I'm sorry, but if he needs to keep you confined in order to keep you from—" He shakes his head. "It would be worth the indignity, trust me."

"Thank you, Doctor."

Banner's head turns sharply back his way, and Nick curses himself for saying anything. "I understand why you need to confine them for the moment, but if you try to run a single test on any of them without their consent, we're going to have a problem."

The door opens, and Barton and Thor walk in. Both clearly read the tension in the room, and their eyes land on Banner.

"I need you to calm down, Doctor Banner." Nick keeps his tone even. 

"I think I'm remarkably calm, considering the circumstances." He gestures to the lab. "You can't honestly think that staying up here is a good idea after what happened last time."

"That was my brother," Thor points out.

"Part of it was your brother," Banner corrects. "Show of hands: who wants to find out how much was just me?" 

The room gets remarkably quiet. The doors open again, and Rogers, Romanoff, and Coulson enter. Nick nods at them, and raises an eyebrow at Coulson.

"I heard there was a party," Coulson deadpans, and looks around the room. "Not a very good one, apparently."

Banner ignores him. "I wouldn't have agreed to come back here if I didn't think I could handle it. But there are a lot of uncertainties with how the serum is going to affect you." He glances at Barton and Romanoff on that, but then his eyes move to Stark and stay there. "We need to get to a research facility—preferably something remote—and stay there until we can figure this out."

"We can't. We don't have anything with the security we need."

"Sir," Rogers cuts in, "I know what the serum did to some people, but I don't see why we'd need that much security for Barton or Romanoff or Stark, serum or no."

"I'm not questioning their intentions, but we don't know what this is yet."

"It's the super soldier serum—the one I got—right?"

Banner looks at his hands as he answers. "We think so."

"Then— look, I know the serum. Some people it mangles because of what they are inside, but that's not going to be a problem for any of them."

Banner winces, but Nick suspects that Rogers is too distracted by Stark’s reaction to notice. 

"Yeah, fuck that bullshit propaganda," Stark spits. "There isn't a shred of scientific evidence for that fairy tale crap."

"So how do you explain it?" Rogers demands.

"Gee, why would cosmetically similar chemical compounds, administered in different decades, made by different people, accompanied by completely different radiation doses or the lack thereof, _possibly_ result in different outcomes? I guess the only answer is that you're God's gift to humanity, and nobody else measures up."

Rogers puts his hands up, palms out as if in surrender. "I just said that I think you guys are going to be fine. I don't think I'm better than anybody."

The answer deflates Stark's anger. "Just keep your superstitions to yourself. You're not the scientist here."

"I am," Banner says quietly. "And I'm not sure he's wrong."

Stark stops dead. "You can't mean that."

"I don't know. But in all the time I've spent studying what happened to me, I haven't come up with a better fit."

"That's— that is magical fucking thinking. It's insane."

"Any sufficiently advanced technology—"

"Oh, shut the hell up, Arthur C. Clark. Sufficiently advanced, my ass. Erskine developed it in 1937, when penicillin was still the hot new thing."

"Tony, I violate the law of conservation of mass when I get pissed off. At some point we have to rethink what's possible."

Thor nods thoughtfully. "In Asgard we know of many conditions that depend upon a man's nature."

"Ok," Stark concedes, "the Clark quote actually applies there, I'll give you that. But unless our working theory is that Erskine picked up the formula on a jaunt to Asgard..." he trails off, obviously considering his point made.

"I'm sure this is all fascinating," Romanoff's voice lacks its usual steadiness, but it commands the attention of the room anyway, "but now isn't the time for abstract arguments. Doctor, what do we actually know?"

"Not much. My best guess is that as long as you can avoid gamma radiation exposure, the effects will be fairly minor. I think that a significant gamma charge would be necessary to trigger any significant... changes. But I might be wrong about that. Radiation might not be necessary at all, and even if it is it might not be limited to gamma radiation. It's possible that lower frequency ionizing radiation—" Banner apparently realizes that not everyone follows that. "X-rays," he clarifies, "could have a similar effect. For right now, the working assumption is that it's gamma related, though. And as for what happens if you are exposed... Rogers' guess is probably as good as mine at this point. This has only happened a handful of times, and even in those cases I've got next to no hard data."

"Uh," Barton begins uncertainly, "sorry to go all remedial ed on you, but how common is gamma radiation? I mean... can we just avoid it?"

"Not remedial at all. A certain amount of gamma radiation is produced naturally—lightning storms, cosmic radiation that isn't filtered out by the atmosphere, that kind of thing—but short of actually being struck by lightning, it's all extremely low level. To get a serious amount of gamma rays you need an artificial source. Those are pretty common but reasonably well controlled. Medical treatments, labs, industrial stuff. Nuclear reactors give off a fair amount, as well, but again, that's pretty well controlled. Most people go their whole lives without getting any significant dose."

"But we're not most people," Barton notes.

"Right. Still, the dose I got was enough that it would have been fatal if not for the serum, and I trust even S.H.I.E.L.D. agents don't go around getting exposed to that much radiation." Banner shrugs. "And if you did, the serum would arguably be a benefit." He runs a hand through his hair. "It really _does_ protect against radiation damage," he adds, his tone quiet and strangely wistful. 

"The situation would not seem to be cause for alarm," Thor suggests thoughtfully. "We need only keep our friends from exposure."

"Two problems with that," Banner answers. "One, I could be hopelessly wrong. There are just too many things that I don't know. And two—"

"Whoever dosed us is still out there, and she—or they—might have a phase two," Romanoff finishes.

"Exactly," Banner agrees.

"And she's already managed to infiltrate one S.H.I.E.L.D. mission," Barton points out. "How do we know she can't do it again with one of our bases?"

Nick nods. "The helicarrier is the _only_ place where we can keep you safe, and," there's no point in beating around the bush, "where we can keep everybody else safe from you. If necessary."

"How many people work on this ship?" Banner asks the question in a low, neutral tone. 

"One thousand, four hundred and fifty-six souls," Nick answers evenly. "Every one of them sworn to make any necessary sacrifice to ensure the safety of the world."

"This isn't a necessary sacrifice," Banner insists. "There has to be somewhere else."

"There isn't."

"Stark Tower."

Every head turns to regard Stark, and for a moment no one speaks.

"Huh," Banner finally ventures. "Here I was thinking that staying on the helicarrier was going to be the most insane idea floated today."

"Banner's right," Romanoff agrees. "Putting us in midtown Manhattan with all this going on— it's impossible."

Even Rogers seems concerned by the notion. "There are eight million people in New York City," he murmurs, almost to himself.

Nick nods, glad he isn't the only one who can see what a terrible idea it is.

"Stark Tower has top of the line security. There's plenty of room and all the lab equipment Banner could need. It's a hell of a lot more comfortable than this boat, and it's on the ground, which is a plus."

"Stark Tower's security keeps people out," Coulson notes. "We may need to do the opposite."

"It can keep people in too, if necessary. One floor already has state-of-the-art Hulk-proofing."

Banner looks up, surprise written all over his face for a moment before he frowns. "There's no such thing as Hulk-proofing."

"Only because you refuse to come test it out."

"I didn't think you were serious about that."

"You thought I was lying to get you to come play in my lab?" Stark pauses to consider. "OK, fair, but, as it happens, wrong. Adamantium-reinforced walls and floors, all of the windows triple coated in adamantine polycarbonate—way better than that cage S.H.I.E.L.D. came up with—and the whole place fitted with monitors so JARVIS can keep an eye on whatever parameters we need."

"That... could work. It isn't perfect, but it's less risky than the helicarrier."

Shit. Nick cannot believe that Banner would even consider that. "Unless Stark is wrong about his security, in which case goodbye Manhattan."

"I could go with them," Rogers offers. "If anything happened, I'd be there to deal with it."

"I would lend my strength as well," Thor adds.

"It's a good plan, Sir," Barton urges. "And you should think about morale. Nobody up here wants me around even before they find out that I could 'hulk out' or whatever at any minute." He glances over at Banner. "No offence, Doctor."

"Very little taken," Banner answers with a wry smile. "And I'm sure that goes double for me."

Nick glowers. He's rapidly running out of allies on this one. He can face down Stark's opposition, but if all of them decide against him, he doesn't have a lot of cards left to play. "Romanoff?"

She glances at Barton. "I can see the advantages. And I can keep Stark in line."

"Will there be some kind of reward system?" Stark suggests. "Because I could live with that."

Romanoff ignores him.

Nick draws in a long breath. Live to fight another day, he tells himself. "I would need assurances that all three of you will stay put in the secure floor of the Tower. This is serious, and I need to know that I can trust you to act accordingly."

Romanoff and Barton both nod solemnly and offer a "yes Sir."

Nick looks to Stark, whose face is uncharacteristically sober. "I'll stay put until Banner clears me."

"And you're not just screwing with me to get what you want?"

"Not at the moment. 'Sir.'"

Nick ignores the mockery in his tone. He'll probably come to regret it, but sending the lot of them to Stark Tower would appear to be the least bad option. Trying to keep them all on the helicarrier against their wishes would be a daily battle, and he can't afford that. They're not his only problem.

"You'll take an unaffected agent with you. Someone to keep tabs."

"We'll take Agent." Stark points at Coulson with one thumb. "We promise not to fake his death again. Oh, wait, that was you."

"You up for that Phil?"

"It'll be the lap of luxury," Stark promises.

Coulson sighs and looks back at Nick. "Tell me I at least get to bring my taser."

"Anything you need, Phil." He looks at the group and nods. "All right. Don't make me regret this."

"Don't worry, Mom, we'll be good."

Nick gives Stark a hard look and taps his com. "Hill, arrange for a quinjet for Agent Coulson and the Avengers.” He doesn't wait for an answer, and looks up at the group instead. "It'll be ready when you get there. If we're going to do this, do it fast, before I come to my senses."

Stark gives him a mocking salute on the way out. He ignores that, but returns Barton's grave nod and Romanoff's strained smile.

Rogers is the last to the door, and just before he steps through, Nick calls him back. "Captain Rogers, a moment."

Rogers turns. "Sir?"

"I appreciate your respect for Agents Barton and Romanoff, and for Stark. And Banner too, for that matter. But I need to make sure that you know that Banner is not the worst case scenario."

Rogers' face is grim. "Sir, I met the worst case scenario, and there is no way any of our people end up like that. But I understand that this could go badly, Sir. I'm prepared for that. I'll do what needs to be done."

Nick nods. "All I needed to know, Captain."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, you guys? I last took biology and physics in high school. Also, I'm pretty sure that the super soldier serum isn't really a thing. So... apologies for pervasive technobabble-fail (then again, this is a fandom where a major character synthesized a new stable element in his Malibu bachelor pad, so I don’t imagine that we’ve got a lot of sticklers for scientific realism).


	3. In Vino Veritas (in vino mendacitas too)

Stark is on his phone before they even board the quinjet, giving strange orders that Clint can’t quite follow. There’s something about a Zen garden, and Clint’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know.

Clint straps in for takeoff, but he’s on his feet again as soon as they reach cruising speed. He paces back to the front of the jet, passing Natasha and Banner, both bent over their respective tablets, both with eyes fixed on their respective tasks. He glances at Natasha’s tablet and sees a picture of the infiltrator there. Or, an approximate picture anyway. It’s pretty good, and he isn’t surprised. Natasha’s always been good with the facial composite software.

“I think her cheekbones were a little wider,” he suggests. “And the hair was maybe a little redish.” Small changes, and probably not worth anything. But it feels good to have something to say.

She makes the change on the cheekbones and nods. Her hand hovers over the coloration bar. “I don’t know about the hair. Could have been strawberry blonde, but that might have been the smoke.”

“Maybe,” he agrees, and leaves her to it.

When he reaches the front of the jet, where Coulson pilots and Rogers sits beside him, taking an impromptu lesson in the vehicle's controls, Clint tries to think of something to say—some reason to be up there—but nothing comes to mind, and he pivots and starts back.

He’s walked the short length of the tiny jet three or four times when Stark pauses in his conversation. "You're annoying the hell out of everyone, Katniss. Sit your ass down."

Clint looks around and recognizes a guilty flinch from Banner, a wry shrug from Natasha, a little nod of confirmation from Thor. Stark's right: the pacing has set everybody a little more on edge. Just what they all need.

He sits, cursing himself for failing to notice earlier. The almost openly hostile reception on the helicarrier has him thrown. Apparently mild irritation doesn’t quite register the same when contrasted against his colleagues’ flat-out fear.

He doesn’t blame them. He doesn’t. But he’s glad as hell to be away from their sidelong glances and brittle smiles. They look at him and see the man who nearly took down the helicarrier, who shot Director Fury point blank, who gave up S.H.I.E.L.D.’s secrets and used all his training against them.

He understands that. It’s who he sees too, every time he looks in a mirror.

But it wasn’t his choice. So it isn’t his fault. 

And maybe if he repeats that enough times, one of these days it will feel true. 

Not today, though.

Today he remembers that when he shot Fury, it was in the chest and not the neat head-shot he’s made more times than he cares to think about. Today he remembers that some details—not many, but a few—stayed in his mind and never crossed his lips in spite of Loki’s meddling.

Today he wonders if those choices were his. And if they were, if he chose one thing, how can he really claim he didn’t choose all the rest?

No. He knows better. He didn’t choose it. But he wasn’t strong enough to resist it either. Wasn’t strong enough to keep control. And now—

He takes a long breath, fiddles with the buckles on the straps of his seat. He glances up and realizes that that’s irritating too. He draws one of his knives to check the edge. It’s sharp already, and he resists the temptation to sharpen it further just for something to do. He puts it back and leans forward, threading his fingers through his hair.

He isn’t sure he can do this again.

In Istanbul, in Port-au-Prince, in Kiev, even in New York, right after everything, he started to feel like his old self: strong and skilled and experienced and highly unlikely to murder his friends and colleagues.

But now— now he’s so fucked he doesn’t even know where to start. He knows that the serum isn’t like Loki’s mind control, but he can’t help but feel like everything is happening all over again, in slow motion this time.

And there's nothing he can do but watch it come.

Natasha glances up from her tablet and he attempts a smile. She moves to sit next to him and shows him the image. “For all the good it’s done. No matches.”

“Would have been too much to hope for, I guess.”

She nods. “It’s the precision that gets me,” she muses. “It was perfectly engineered. The fake doombots that got S.H.I.E.L.D. to send us in in the first place, the gas to keep her hidden—“

“The dart that broke Stark’s air seal,” Clint adds.

“And knowing that Stark would go poke the robots the first chance he got,” Rogers suggests, moving from his seat in the cockpit to lean against one of the walls.

“And the way they fooled his sensors,” Natasha agrees. “All carefully calculated to get us there and put us in a position where we’d accept the injections.” She lets out a string of curses in five or six languages. “I still can’t believe I was that stupid.”

“Hey,” Clint objects with what he knows is a weak grin, “Stark and I fell for it too.”

“Stark doesn’t know S.H.I.E.L.D. procedure, and you—“ She winces. “You assumed I knew her. Because I know better than to get a goddamned injection from someone I don’t know.”

Clint swallows. He realizes that she’s right—not that he wouldn’t have been fooled just as she was, but even if he’d been inclined to be suspicious, he’d never have questioned the supposed anti-toxin once Natasha had already accepted it. “I knew that the operation was going to be full of new people. If I assumed you knew her, that was my mistake, not yours.”

“Blame is boring.” Stark’s still on the phone, but for the moment he’s talking to them. “The real question is why she targeted us.”

“Mad science?” Clint suggests.

Banner looks up, an amused smirk on his lips.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. does run into a lot of genius types that make some really bad decisions.”

“Fair,” Banner admits, but shakes his head. “But it’s got to be more than that. You three are just about the least convenient test subjects she could have picked. Something like the super soldier serum... if you’re not too hung up on medical ethics it can’t be hard to get volunteers.”

“Why did you?” Rogers asks suddenly. “Volunteer, I mean. Sorry, it’s just always bothered me. You don’t seem like the soldier type. No offense.”

Banner blinks. “Why did I—” He cuts himself off and sits in silence for a few seconds, before barking out a nasty little laugh. He glances at Stark, and then at Natasha and Clint, and the back of Coulson’s head at the front of the plane. None of them speak, and Banner laughs again, a funny, gasping little sound that he doesn’t seem to be able to stop. It carries an edge that sends Clint’s hand to his bow, his fingers tapping out the sequence to mount a tranq arrow.

“Care to let us in on the joke, Doc?” Natasha asks carefully.

He sobers at that. “You really don’t know.” He murmurs. “It’s a good one. Hilarious. The genius who turns himself into a monster because he can’t tell the difference between radiation prophylaxis and the super soldier serum.” The laughter returns, and it’s just as unsettling. Clint strokes the grip of his bow with one thumb and glances over to see Natasha’s hand lightly resting on her gun, and Thor’s fist clenched tight around Mjölnir.

“It was a lab mix-up?” Rogers guesses.

Banner’s laughter dies, and he shakes his head. He stares at his hands as he speaks. “I had a military grant to work on a drug to ward off radiation poisoning. Ross’s people already had a prototype, and I... made it work. I didn’t know what else it would do. The whole thing was rushed, and I was getting constant threats that the grant would be revoked if I didn’t show results.” 

He looks up at Rogers. “Radiation sickness is a terrible way to die.” He says it softly, like a prayer for forgiveness. His gaze returns to his hands. “If I lost the grant I couldn’t have finished developing the drug. So I tested it on myself.” He runs his fingers through his hair and takes a deep breath. “I assumed you knew.” He laughs again, but this time it’s just bitter, not unhinged. “I guess my file’s a little thin.”

“I am going to shove my fist down Ross’s throat, pull his guts out and use them to strangle him.” Coulson’s muttered threat carries easily to the back of the jet.

“I’ll help,” Natasha volunteers.

“Me too,” Stark adds. “Just on general principles.”

Banner pulls himself upright, a puzzled look on his face.

“Ross gave us bad information,” Natasha explains. “A lot of it, evidently. Your file is plenty thick, but it sounds like quite a bit of it’s fiction.”

“Good reading, though,” Clint offers, hoping that Banner will take it as the half-joke it is. “Overambitious brainiac gets obsessed with the serum; misuses military resources trying to turn himself into a super hero. I won’t spoil the ending.”

“We never investigated on our own.” Coulson sounds a little sheepish. “Resource constraints.”

Banner sits for a moment, letting that sink in. “Not all that important at the moment, I suppose.”

“Maybe not,” Rogers agrees, “but I’m glad you set us straight.”

Bruce acknowledges that with a nod, and for an instant Clint thinks he looks pleasantly surprised, but then his gaze drops back to his hands.

"Strap in," Coulson calls out, "we're landing."

Clint leans forward to get a good look at Stark Tower before they get too close to really see more than the roof. Judging from the silhouette of the building against the sparkle of Manhattan’s early evening skyline, Stark's fixed most of the damage from the Chitauri fight. But of the lit sign around the landing pad, only the "A" remains. "You never fixed the sign."

"Finally figured out that putting your name up in lights looks like overcompensation?" Natasha asks with exaggerated sweetness.

Stark smirks. "I like it this way. Reminds everybody about that time I selflessly flew a nuke into space and saved the city."

“Are your people so fickle that they would forget your bravery on their behalf?” Thor asks.

“Have you seen reality television?” Stark hits the release on his straps before the jet quite settles. “Our people are pretty fickle.”

Clint stands and gathers what little he brought with him—a small bag, his bow, his quiver. Nobody else has much either, and it occurs to him to wonder, a little too late, how long they’re going to be stuck here. Days, sure. Weeks, maybe, or a month. Or two. Or— He doesn’t finish that thought.

He’s had worse missions, in far worse places, but this one hasn’t got an end date, and it doesn’t require his skills. For this, he isn’t an agent. Like Stark said, he’s a lab rat. A dangerous one. About to enter a nicer cage than he deserves.

For a mad instant he eyes the edge of the roof and thinks of his grapple arrow, of rappelling down the building, disappearing into the dark and running as far and as fast as he can. But it’s nothing more than a wild impulse. He knows better than to even consider it.

Maybe Stark can see his uneasiness on Clint’s face, or maybe he feels it himself, because when the bay door opens he gestures grandly but shoots a wry smile at Clint. “Home sweet house arrest.”

Coulson completes the shutdown procedure and joins them near the open door. “Fastest way to the secure floor?”

Stark nods in the direction of the entrance, but he doesn’t move. “Elevator’s in the penthouse.”

Clint glances at Rogers and Thor, and then at Natasha. She returns his gaze and takes a deep breath. She doesn’t move either.

“Let’s go, then.” Coulson steps off the jet with brisk efficiency and pauses on the roof, surveying the skyline.

Stark squares his shoulders and leads the way onto the roof and to the door to his apartment. Clint grabs his bag and falls into step with Natasha behind Stark.

Just before he passes through the doors, Clint glances back to see that Coulson has activated the jet’s camouflage, and he, Rogers, Thor, and Banner are all following from what Clint can’t help but think is a respectful distance.

They understand what this is.

Stark’s penthouse looks remarkably similar to the last time he saw it—less shattered glass, and no Loki-shaped dent in the floor, but otherwise it’s more or less unchanged. Stark makes straight for the elevator, and Clint wonders if it’s strange for him to be here in his own tower, but unable to stay in his own home. If the rest of the tower is nearly as foreign to him as it is to the rest of them.

They all fit easily into the elevator, and it takes only a few seconds before they arrive at a large, open room. “Grand tour time,” Stark announces, and strides out.

At least claustrophobia won’t be a factor. Any of the trailers and two-room apartments where Clint spent his earliest years could have fit ten or fifteen times into this room alone. Thick rugs in neutral colors, and practical, comfortable looking chairs and sofas dot the expanse of hardwood floor. The walls wear a simple, off-white coat of paint, and the windows on each side tell him that the room actually spans the entire length of the floor. 

It’s easily long enough to make for a decent practice range. Probably better to save that suggestion for later, though.

“Living room,” Stark notes unnecessarily, and gestures to a doorway on one side. “Kitchen.” The gesture moves to the next door, a little ways down the wall, “dining room. Bedrooms and so on are over there,” Stark waves vaguely at a couple of hallways. He turns to Banner. “Lab is through there,” he points at a wide set of double doors in an otherwise unbroken wall that runs the length of the tower. “Important part is over here,” he concludes, and makes for the remaining doorway.

Clint’s the first to follow, and when he passes through the door he realizes why Stark was set on heading here in particular. The room is smaller and darker, and filled with couches, screens, a pool table, a dart board, and one very long bar.

Stark heads straight to that last and pulls a decanter and a handful of glasses off the shelf behind it. He immediately pours himself a generous measure of the amber liquid, tosses it back, and refills the glass.

Rogers frowns. “Really, Stark?”

Stark snorts. “I agreed to be cooped up in here with the rest of you until we know what’s what. I’m sure as hell not doing it sober.” He takes a sip, considers, and pours himself another measure before holding up the decanter. “Any takers? This scotch is old enough to drink itself, and it was worth the wait.”

Clint shrugs. “Why the hell not?”

“You’re going to be the fun one, I can tell.” Stark pours Clint a drink and hands it over.

He takes a sip and savors the smoky, slightly sweet aroma and the delicious burn all down his throat.

“Got any bourbon back there?” Natasha asks.

“Do I have any bourbon,” Stark scoffs, and produces a few bottles from behind the bar. “Take your pick. Agent, what’s your poison?”

Coulson actually looks tempted, and Clint files away that information. But he gives a businesslike shake of his head. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Big Green? Thor?”

Banner shakes his head, mumbling something about getting to the lab, but Thor smiles. “I will have whatever you recommend.”

Stark pours him a measure of the scotch and hands it over. Thor knocks it back like water and slams the glass down hard on the bar. “Nearly a match for the mead of Asgard. Another?” Stark grins and re-fills the glass.

Thor drinks it down the same way, and Stark gives a slightly strangled look. “Maybe bourbon for you from now on,” he notes. "What about you, Cap? Shirley Temple?"

Rogers flushes slightly and shakes his head.

"I'll take a Shirley Temple." Coulson regards Stark evenly, daring him to laugh.

Stark does chuckle, but fondly, and fishes a bottle of grenadine and a can of soda out from behind the bar and mixes the drink, adding a cherry and a little purple umbrella and handing it to Coulson with a flourish. Coulson accepts it with a straight face, takes a sip, and nods in satisfaction.

Clint snickers a little, and Coulson meets his eyes with a bland expression, as if to ask what Clint could possibly find amusing. Clint sobers, and Coulson turns to Stark. "Was there more to the tour?"

Stark takes another sip of his scotch. “Couple more things and an introduction.” He swings around the bar and towards the door with a brisk but slightly unstable stride that puts Clint in mind of Willy Wonka.

“Introduction first,” Stark decides as they follow him out. “JARVIS, meet everybody. Everybody, meet JARVIS.”

“I am most pleased to make your acquaintances.” The gentle voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, and it’s more disconcerting than it should be.

“Good to meet you, JARVIS,” Rogers replies, apparently unfazed by conversing with an artificial intelligence. “I appreciate your help this morning.”

“Thank you, Captain. I apologize for my error regarding the toxicity of the smoke. I am afraid I was quite fooled by the interference of the hostile technology. I assure you that I am devoting substantial processing capacity to determining how to avoid such mistakes in the future.”

Banner’s head turns sharply towards Stark. “Did you tell it to do that?”

“Didn’t need to. He takes initiative.” Stark takes another drink, but the gesture doesn’t hide his smug grin.

Banner gives a low whistle. “Impressive.”

“Thank you, Doctor Banner,” JARVIS replies.

Banner looks surprised all over again. “You’re, uh, welcome.”

Stark continues down the hall. “If you need anything, bug JARVIS, not me. He can hear you anywhere, but he won’t spy on you in your private rooms. Speaking of—” he gestures at a door on their right. “This one’s Romanoff’s.” He gestures at a panel to the side of the door. “Handprint access. JARVIS can override, though, just FYI.”

Natasha places her hand on the center of the panel, and the door slides open to reveal a small room filled with a couple of couches, a desk, some shelving, and another door on the far side.

Stark points. “Bedroom’s through there, ensuite, blah blah blah.” He gestures with his tumbler, now mostly empty, and moves on. Natasha tosses her bag into the room, palms the door control to close it, and follows along with the others.

“Barton’s,” Stark remarks as they pass a second door. Clint stops to stick his head in and confirm that it’s more or less the same as Natasha’s, and to leave his own bag. He considers leaving his bow and quiver as well, but can’t quite bring himself to put them down.

When he catches up they’ve passed Thor’s room and rounded a corner. “Banner, this is you.” 

When Banner opens the door, Clint can see that the front room is quite a bit larger than his or Natasha’s, and the walls are crammed with bookshelves. “Sorry about that,” Stark tells him. “I had my people move half the library in here to make room for Agent.”

Banner just stands in the doorway with a hand on each side and stares into the room. “Thank you,” he murmurs, almost too quietly for Clint to hear.

Stark ducks his head, doesn’t answer. Then he tosses back the last of his scotch. “C’mon, you’re going to like the next one. Or hate it. Could be you’re going to hate it.”

The next one turns out to be only a few yards further down the hall, on the opposite side. Stark opens the door and gestures for the group to precede him.

Clint steps down onto a springy floor, and glances around to see that the whole room—the whole huge, high-ceilinged cathedral of a room—is covered in the same material. Ledges, ladders, and little handholds dot the walls, and the corners are stuffed with barrels and balls and targets and what seem to be old electronics.

“A sparring room. Excellent,” Thor approves.

Clint glances back to Stark and sees that his eyes are on Banner.

“What do you think?” Stark asks. “I figured your greener half might need some exercise.”

Banner gazes around the room for a long moment, but finally shakes his head. “It’s insane. I’m not letting him out to play in the middle of Manhattan.”

“I’m showing you the specs. You’re going to be impressed.”

“I’m sure I am.” Banner lets a smile touch his lips, but banishes it almost immediately. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m not doing it. And anyway, I’ve got work to do.” 

“Gotta let loose sometime.”

“I really don’t.” 

The sudden steel in his tone startles Clint. Banner’s posture is brittle, like he’s holding himself together by sheer conscious effort. Clint thinks back and wonders if it’s always like that for him, if you know how to look. The truth is, until today he’s never spent more than an hour at a time with the man. And even in those hours he never paid him that much attention. But suddenly Clint sees his own future in Banner’s tensed shoulders—struggling to keep himself together every minute, and never really managing it by more than the skin of his teeth. He shudders a little, and hopes to hell that Banner doesn’t see it.

Clint glances over at Natasha. Her back is to the group, and she’s ostensibly examining one of the handholds on the wall, but he has a feeling that her thoughts echo his own.

“Why don’t we finish the tour,” Rogers suggests. “It’s been a long day.”

Clint has to laugh at that. Twenty-four hours ago he was still in Kiev—an agent on a mission with nothing more dangerous than caffeine flowing through his veins. Long day doesn’t quite cover it. When he looks up, he realizes that all eyes are on him. “You’ve got a talent for understatement, Cap.” He laughs again, and recognizes in his own voice a hint of the hysteria that so unnerved him from Banner. 

Natasha snorts, and then Stark is laughing too. Clint’s vaguely aware that the others are watching them with various expressions of unease, but somehow that only makes him laugh harder.

“Ok,” Stark finally chokes out, “more booze is definitely in order.” He claps Clint on the shoulder, and does the same to Natasha. “C’mon,” he says, and leads the way.

~

Steve’s room is covered in sand.

There’s a bed, a bathroom, chairs, a desk and a couple of sofas. And also, for some reason, a number of large rocks and a thick layer of fine sand. It shifts under his feet and finds its way into his boots in seconds.

He takes a breath and tries to laugh. The room still beats the hell out of anywhere he stayed during the war, and half the places he’s stayed since. If the whole thing is a little ridiculous, well, that doesn’t really distinguish it from anything else in his life.

He puts down his bags on the bed and considers finding a broom to try to at least deposit most of the sand in one corner of the suite. But for now it doesn’t feel worth the effort.

By the time he returns to the hall, Stark has already dragged Barton and Romanoff back to the lounge, and Bruce has disappeared, Steve assumes to his lab. He thinks about following Stark and demanding an explanation for the room, but the truth is that if a prank like that’s the worst thing Stark pulls tonight, Steve will count himself lucky. 

Coulson glances in and raises an eyebrow. “He stuck you in a Zen garden?”

“Is that what the sand is for?”

Coulson nods. “It’s supposed to be relaxing.”

“Huh.” Steve considers. “It isn’t working that well.”

“I wouldn’t really have expected it to.”

Steve glances back into his room. He could sleep, he supposes. He’s got a talent for sleeping whenever he gets the chance. But after the day he’s had he’s a little too wound to really want to.

Neither Coulson nor Thor seem inclined to hit the sack either, and one way or another they find themselves in the kitchen in short order. Steve rummages through the icebox and cupboards and comes up with sandwich fixings and a couple of bags of potato chips.

He stands at the counter, smearing mustard and arranging cold cuts, next to a secret agent and a man with an uncanny resemblance to an actual Norse god, both of whom are assembling humble little sandwiches of their own. 

Say what you will about his life—it isn’t dull.

Coulson puts his plate down on the kitchen table and moves to the icebox to pull out a beer. He glances up at Steve, and whether he’s seeking approval or just offering it around, Steve isn’t sure, but either way Steve gives an easy smile. “Grab one for me?” It’s not going to do much for him, but there’s something to be said for sharing a drink with his comrades anyway.

Coulson pulls out three bottles and neatly knocks the caps off against the granite countertop.

Steve takes the offered beer in silence. Thor raises his bottle in a wordless toast, and they all take a long drink. 

“How do you think they fare?” Thor finally asks, his tone grim.

Coulson takes another drink. “About as well as can be expected. So, not all that well.”

Steve nods. “It’s a lot to take in. They’ll cope better when Banner sorts everything out. I just hope to hell it happens fast.”

Coulson sighs. “Be careful what you wish for.”

“If it’s really the serum, they’re going to be OK.”

Coulson looks away, and Thor studiously examines his beer bottle for a long moment before answering. “Will they? Agent Barton told me of the Abomination’s origins. And I have read of the man known as Red Skull. Both received the serum, did they not?”

The question feels like a blow. “That isn’t the point,” he insists. “Schmidt and Blonsky were monsters before they so much as looked at the serum. Stark and Barton and Romanoff are good people. We know them.”

Thor frowns, and takes a long drink. “They are brave and selfless in battle, but I cannot say that I truly know them.”

Steve ducks his head. The truth is that he can’t really say he does either. He’s worked with them three times now, hardly enough to know a man’s soul—or a woman’s either. But that logic does nothing to shake his conviction. He looks to Coulson, who shrugs.

“We don’t know it’s even the serum. But assuming it is, there is cause for concern,” Steve wants to object, but allows Coulson to continue. “I’m not maligning anyone. Barton and Romanoff are exceptional agents.” His detached, professional words are betrayed by his tone—rich with pride and affection. “And Stark’s a better man than he’d like any of us to think.” He takes a long breath. “But Banner’s a good man too.”

“The Hulk isn’t so bad. He’s saved our asses twice now.”

“Doctor Banner seems to be a man of goodwill,” Thor agrees cautiously, “and his counterpart has been an ally of great value. But— you did not have to fight him. Consumed with rage, he is a fearsome foe. He cannot be controlled.” Thor closes his mouth and sighs, before reluctantly continuing. “Or trusted.”

“He’s got a body count,” Coulson adds. “Mostly people who were trying to capture or kill him, but there have been others. Wrong place wrong time. And then there was the helicarrier.”

Steve takes a long pull at his bottle, regretting that the alcohol wasn’t going to lend him even a little relief. “I know.” And he knows, too, that it weighs on Banner in a way that Steve doesn’t fully understand. Of the people he’s killed, none were civilians, as far as he knows. And every time he was able to weigh the risks and make his own call on whether or not it was really necessary. Banner lacks that particular comfort. “None of it was his fault.”

“That matters less than you might imagine.” 

Something in the way Coulson says it makes Steve think that the man knows what he’s talking about. He wonders how, but discards the thought. It isn’t important now. “I don’t know how to help,” he admits.

“Nor I,” Thor agrees.

Coulson drains the last of his beer, and without asking pulls another trio of bottles from the fridge and passes them around. “It isn’t about us. We’re here to keep them safe. From themselves if necessary. That’s how we help.” Coulson’s simple, steady tone settles a little of the anxiety churning in Steve’s stomach. But then his voice turns fierce. “That, and annihilating the bastard that did this to them.”

~

Five drinks in, the world is finally softening the way Tony needs it to. Breathing requires almost no concentration at all, and maybe a third of his grin isn’t faked.

That third has a lot to do with the fact that Romanoff, at least as many drinks in as he is, has agreed to a game of eight ball with a very superior smile on her face.

What people don’t realize about pool is that it’s an engineer’s game. And more than a billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, or hero, Tony is an engineer. He’s just buzzed enough that the angles sing to him, and this is exactly what he needs.

He breaks, sending a pair of solids neatly into opposite pockets, calls solids, and proceeds to make three easy shots, sinking four more of his balls.

The next one’s tricky—too close to the eight ball for a clear shot. “Six ball, center pocket.” He points to the one he means, and Barton whistles, a skeptical look on his face.

“Shut up and play with your darts.”

Barton shrugs. “Not that much fun when nobody’s got the guts to play me.”

“When’s the last time you had an opponent good enough to be fun for you anyway?” Tony scoffs.

“The fun isn’t the challenge. The fun is taking their money.”

“You’re already getting room and board from me.” Tony leans over and considers his shot. “What the hell else do you want?”

“Petty satisfaction?” Tony looks up and Barton grins. “Really, though, thanks. It’s good to be off the helicarrier.”

Tony gives a curt nod to acknowledge that.

“Less talking, more shooting,” Romanoff demands, idly twirling her cue in a way that carries more threat than Tony is entirely comfortable with.

Tony obliges, easing into the shot to send the six ball gently bouncing off the cushion and clear of the eight ball, across the table just to the edge of the indicated pocket. Where it stubbornly stops.

“Better luck next time, Stark.” Romanoff takes a long pull from the bourbon bottle she’s appropriated—and damn, Tony eyes the level of the whiskey and notes that she hasn’t just kept pace with him, but has outpaced him altogether.

She sets the bottle down and calls her first shot. She’s well set up, and he isn’t surprised when she sinks her first three easily. But the next one’s a surprise, and the one after that is nothing short of astonishing.

Tony can’t help but gape a little. He eyes the bourbon bottle. “Shouldn’t you be flat on your ass by now, belting out ‘The Internationale’ or something?”

“You really need to update your Russian stereotypes. Nine ball, corner pocket.”

“Natasha has the constitution of—” Clint begins, but then pauses to consider. “No, actually, I’ve never met anyone who Nat can’t drink under the table. And many have tried.”

“‘Nat’?” Tony chuckles. “OK, that’s it. Used to bang each other, or currently banging each other?”

“Neither,” Romanoff answers, at the same time that Barton says “none of your business.” They exchange a look, and Romanoff shrugs.

“Shame,” Tony notes. “Because the two of you—“ he considers. “Then again,” he amends philosophically, “more to share with the rest of the world. I could be of service if either of you needs... _comfort_ during this trying time.”

Barton raises an eyebrow, and Romanoff ignores him and neatly sinks the last striped ball.

“Seriously, how are you even doing that? Your blood must be half bourbon by now.”

Natasha doesn’t answer—just calls the pocket into which she intends to drop the eight ball. But the voice she does it in wavers a little, and when she takes the shot the eight ball slips into the pocket as predicted, but is immediately followed by the cue ball.

She curses, and takes a long drink.

“Hah!” He tries to muster the energy to gloat a little more, but his heart isn’t in it. The truth is that his mind’s gone to the same subject that surely ruined Romanoff’s shot. The contents of their veins is a touchy subject just now, and the alcohol is the least of any of their worries. Tony gives up and pours himself another double of scotch, and hops up onto the bar.

Barton joins him, refilling his own glass, and for a moment they all drink in silence.

When the silence has stretched about as long as any of them can handle, Natasha takes a long breath. “You and Rogers and Banner,” she begins quietly. “On the helicarrier, you were arguing about the serum. Rogers said—” she pauses for a second, as if trying to recollect it exactly.

“‘Some people it mangles, because of what they are inside,’” Barton supplies, his voice carefully neutral.

“Right,” she agrees, and turns back to Tony. “What did he mean?”

Shit. Tony is so not drunk enough to have this conversation. He tries to rectify that with a long swallow. No, definitely still not drunk enough. He screws up his courage and plunges in anyway, forcing his voice into nonchalance. “Erskine liked to run his mouth about moral philosophy, and people confused it for science. ‘Good becomes great, bad becomes worse.’”

“Like in the comics?” Barton looks surprised.

“Yep. According to dear old Dad, they got that one right. Apparently it didn’t occur to anybody that the guy was just trying to make a point about what bad people do with power. ‘Cause why would that be on the mind of a German expat in 1942?” He snorts.

Natasha frowns. “That doesn’t explain why Banner agreed with it.”

“He said it was _possible_ ,” Tony corrects, “not that it’s true.”

“If the idea is ridiculous, why would he even go that far?”

“Emotional masochism?” Tony suggests, and then shrugs. “I don’t know. He knows his stuff, I’ll give him that. I mean, he’s the real deal, genius-wise. But the guy’s pretty fond of beating himself up.” Tony lifts his glass to his lips, finds it empty, and pours himself another. “I can tell you this much though—the serum isn’t some kind of moral report card. It’s biology, and it’s physics. Cells and molecules and atoms doing what they do. We are not being judged for our sins.”

“Thank God for that,” Barton mutters, and Tony raises his glass to clink against Baron’s. Romanoff joins them with her bottle, and they all take a long, fervent drink.

But, some resolutely uncounted quantity of scotch later, Tony can’t quite get out of his head what Banner had actually said about Rogers’ theory. He hasn’t found anything that’s a better fit. And yeah, maybe it’s self flagellation, but some part of Tony doesn’t think so. Banner may have an oversized guilt complex, but he’s also a scientist to his very core, and that means something.

So when Barton and Romanoff finally stumble gracefully off to their beds, Tony only glances down the hallway towards his own room before turning toward the lab.

Sure enough, Banner’s still there, hunched over a stack of paper.

“Bruuuuce Banner,” Tony calls out as he enters the lab. “Doooctor Bruce Banner.”

Banner looks up and runs a hand through already thoroughly tousled hair. His eyebrows shoot up and he opens his mouth, closes it again, gives a soft, rueful smile, and finally speaks. “Good night?”

“Kicked Romanoff’s ass at eight ball.”

“Impressive,” Banner notes. He doesn’t sound impressed.

“You don’t sound impressed.” Tony takes another drink and shakes his head. “Nevermind.” He moves to stand behind Banner, close enough to read over his shoulder.

Banner hesitates for a moment, and then returns to his notes. Tony doesn’t interrupt, content to watch him work through his current theory in a series of dazzling equations. It’s enough to put the questions that brought Tony there right out of his mind, and he’s grateful for that. Banner’s hand moves across the page, quick and sure, leaving elegant notations behind, and Tony can’t look away.

Until the notations cease abruptly and Banner puts down his sub of a pencil with a sigh. “It’s not enough.” There’s a tremor in his voice that cuts through the gentle haze granted by the scotch, and Tony almost resents it. “There just isn’t enough data.”

“Two data points make a shitty line,” Tony sympathizes. “Nothing on Blonsky or Schmidt?”

Banner snorts. “Two data points would be an improvement. I don’t even have anything on Rogers to speak of. I’ve got blood analysis, before and after, on the few markers they knew about back then. But next to nothing on the procedure. No offense, but Project Rebirth’s recordkeeping was criminally bad.”

“No offense? Why would I— Oh. Right. Pops. Please, disparage him all you want.” He drinks the last of his scotch in one long swallow, and stares into the glass for a moment. “You know, he probably did keep decent notes somewhere. Say what you will about the man—and I’ve said plenty—but he liked his records.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t have much.”

“Yeah, S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t know everything. You’re case in point, apparently.”

Banner nods and looks back at his notes, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, back at Tony. “Did you—?”

“Know what Ross pulled on your research? No. I assure you, if I had, I—“ Wouldn’t have designed his weapons for him? Would have asked a few damned questions about the neigh invulnerable foe that warranted new and innovative designs? Wouldn’t have enjoyed the fucking challenge? “I’d have done worse than demolish his favorite bar.” That’s true too.

Banner smirks, and it’s a good look on him, better than Tony deserves by far. “You did that?”

Tony shrugs. “He and I don’t get along that well.” Not after Afghanistan, anyway.

“Well, that makes two of us.”

Tony looks away, unwilling to elaborate, but unable to face Banner’s easy acceptance. He takes a step back, and the question that brought him to the lab returns to the forefront of his mind. It’s on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t force it out. He surveys the lab, hoping to conceal his indecision.

“Thank you, for all this,” Banner says quietly.

“It’s my ass you’re saving.”

“You didn’t put all this together today.”

“No,” Tony admits. “Told you you should join me in New York. Candyland, like I said.”

“I haven’t had access to anything like this since— well, since the incident.”

“It’s yours. As long as you want it.”

“Why?” 

Tony can understand the suspicion in his voice. He’s waiting for the catch, for some other shoe to drop. He’s got less reason to trust Tony than he even thinks, and he can’t think he’s got much. They worked well together that afternoon—better than Tony’s worked with anybody in longer than he can remember—but, like sex, a successful collaboration is a far cry from a real connection, however good it might feel.

So Tony keeps his tone casual. “Why not? You may have heard, I’m loaded. This doesn’t even rise to the level of petty cash.” He brings his glass to his lips before remembering that it’s empty again. “Anyway, JARVIS, search all archives for any relevant data on Project Rebirth, Steve Rogers, Captain America, or the Serum. Give Banner full access. Hell, give him access to whatever he wants.”

“Gladly, Sir.”

“So— you made JARVIS?” Another little smile touches Banner’s lips, and there’s an awe to it that somehow makes Tony feel like a fraud. 

“I am the Lord, his God,” he gestures vaguely, “and so on.” 

“He… _thinks_.”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees, and this time he can’t help but enjoy the look on Banner’s face. He may well be a fraud a lot of the time, but the truth is, JARVIS is a masterpiece, and more. If creating the AI were the only thing he accomplished in his entire life, he’d still be head and shoulders above most of the best thinkers of the day. Tony doesn’t go in for false modesty, but sometimes even he forgets how good he is, and he’s got no objection to being reminded.

Banner just shakes his head. “I didn’t know you were— I mean, I knew, but—“ He looks away, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“Hey, never apologize for stroking my ego.”

When Banner smiles at that his eyes crinkle a little at the corners in a way that almost makes him look happy. But the expression fades fast. “Was there, uh, something you wanted?”

There was. But in this pleasant moment, he isn’t sure he wants to know. Then again, when has that ever stopped him? “You’ve got about two data points. But you think Steve’s ‘theory,’” Tony lends his voice all the scare quotes he can muster, “is a good fit. You are— you’re way too smart to believe crap like that without a reason.”

Banner turns to his notes, shuffling the paper into some other order that Tony is vaguely sure isn’t an improvement. “Steve’s character is well documented, and his transition was flawless. By all accounts he is the perfect specimen, inside and out. Blonsky and Schmidt, not so much. And me—“ He swallows. “Well, let’s just say once I had a chance to think about it, the other guy wasn’t all that unfamiliar.”

“See, that’s where you lose me. Because, don’t get me wrong, I am a big fan of the both of you, but you and he…“ Tony trails off.

“How much do you know about my father?”

Tony tries to direct his liquor-soaked brain to that particular corner of his memory. He skipped over most of the boring biographical details in Banner’s file, but he seems to remember that the name was familiar. “Brian Banner,” he recalls. “Published some papers back in the day. Brilliant ones.”

Banner suddenly looks a little green, and it takes Tony a terrified moment to determine that it’s nausea, and not the other guy. Which, under the circumstances, isn’t really better.

“Sorry. Look, fathers, I get it, trust me.”

Banner turns away again. “I really hope you don’t.”

Shit. Shit, he is not sober enough for this conversation.

Banner doesn’t turn back. He tidies his workspace, or moves things around on it anyway, as he speaks. “I was right there when he killed my mother. I was right there and I— there wasn’t anything I could do. Just like all the other times he beat her. And me. Ergo, anger.” His lips twist around the word, like it’s pathetically inadequate to what he wants to say. “Truth is, I always wanted the power to back it up.” Banner looks at Tony. “And then I got it.” His smile is the coldest, bleakest thing Tony has ever seen, and suddenly Banner and the Hulk don’t seem like two different people at all. 

Tony has no idea how to respond. Part of him wants to reach out, to touch Banner’s arm, his hand, his cheek. To… protect him, and damn if that’s not a bizarre impulse, under the circumstances. But another, smaller part just wants to run far, far away from that smile and everything it conveys. He can’t handle this—comfort is not what he does, and any move he makes is bound to do more harm than good. It’s in his nature. He just stands there, hoping that his eyes convey what the rest of him can’t. It isn’t the right thing to do, but he hasn’t got anything better.

“So, yeah,” Banner continues after a long examination of his own shoes, “I can’t even begin to tell you how it’s possible, but Steve’s theory is a pretty good fit.”

“I’m sorry.” And he is. For what happened to Banner, for prying into things that are none of his business, and for being too drunk to have the first idea of anything useful to say. For being too chickenshit to embrace the man, or maybe for wanting to hold him in the first place. And most of all for the fact that he can’t pull his mind away from what this means for him. 

Because if Steve was right, if Erskine was being literal about that whole “bad becomes worse” business…?

Shit. He is not drunk enough for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did Tony convert a zen garden into a guest suite on such short notice? I had a whole piece of dialogue explaining about his contractors and their security clearance and nondisclosure agreements, and then I realized that that was boring as hell. So—he’s really rich. That’s how he did it.


	4. First Do No Harm (if you get as far as second you’re doing well)

As is his usual custom when he has not made himself too merry with drink, Thor rises with the dawn.

He makes his way to the kitchen, and considers what he takes to be the coffee maker. It differs considerably from the simple machine that his lady Jane keeps in her kitchen, and he is not immediately certain how to operate it.

“Mr. Odinson?” Thor can clearly hear the voice of Stark’s mechanical servant, but cannot pinpoint from where it comes. “Shall I start the coffee?”

Ah. That explains it. “Yes,” Thor agrees. “Please do.”

The pot begins to whir and hiss, and Thor moves to the cupboards, searching for something for the morning meal. He finds little that would not require cooking, and the tiny fires with which Midgard prepares its food have never suited him well.

“If I may suggest, Sir,” JARVIS’s voice is diffident but even, like a loyal courtier. Thor likes it.

“Go ahead.”

“Mr. Stark often has breakfast brought in. If you wish to place such an order, I would be pleased to make the arrangements.”

“An excellent notion. Have enough food for all our people brought in. Whatever is customary in this region of Midgard.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Have any of my compatriots arisen?”

“Yes, Sir. Captain Rogers is engaged in calisthenics in what Mr. Stark refers to as the ‘Hulk Room.’ Doctor Banner remains in his lab.” Thor wonders if the program is capable of feeling disapproval—if not, he feigns it well.

“He has not left since last night?”

“No, Sir,” JARVIS confirms.

Thor finds mugs for the coffee and pours himself a cup, and thinks, not for the first time, that when he returns to Asgard he must be sure to bring an ample supply of the stuff.

He has nearly finished his first cup when JARVIS speaks again. “The breakfast order is available in the elevator. Due to Mr. Stark’s security protocol, no delivery personnel have been permitted to accompany it.”

Thor nods. Probably wise. Whatever the villainess plans, they have reason to hope that she does not know where any of her targets have gone. The longer they can keep that secret, the safer they will be.

He carries the bags to the table, and examines the assortment of donuts, bagels, fruit, and various spreads. He assembles a pair of plates, refills his own mug of coffee and pours a fresh one as well, and makes his way to the lab.

Banner’s eyes seek him out as soon as Thor enters. He makes a small sound of surprise, and then offers a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting visitors.” Banner’s skin shows an unhealthy pallor. Red lines his eyes, and his clothes and hair look ill used.

“I thought that you might wish to break your fast. I have noted that the Lady Jane often neglects to eat when she is deeply engaged in work, and feared that you might share that trait.” And yet, something about the way that Banner carries himself speaks to more than the exhaustion that commonly lines Jane’s face.

Banner laughs, though, the sound more relaxed than Thor expects. “I forgot that you… know Dr. Foster. Give her my regards. Her last paper was very impressive.”

Thor nods. “She is exceptional in many respects.”

“I’m sure,” Banner agrees, his eyes still on a computer display.

“Will you eat?”

Banner appears for a moment as if he will refuse, but a soft rumbling sound crosses the lab, and he smiles ruefully. “I probably should.”

Thor moves to place the items on the lab bench, but Banner waves him away towards a lower table next to a couch, and joins him there.

“Thank you, for this.”

“You are welcome. I fear that I have little wisdom to offer about this Serum, but I would be of service in whatever way I can.”

“Well, I appreciate it. I’ve never had an alien prince bring me breakfast before.”

It isn’t quite a jest, but Thor laughs anyway. In truth it grates upon his nerves to have no more substantial role than nursemaid to those doing the real work, but if this is what he can contribute, he will do it. He owes these people, and what’s more, he likes them. “You should have a care for yourself. You will do the others little good if you work yourself to exhaustion.”

“Well,” Banner returns, blowing on his coffee to cool it, “this should help.”

Thor picks up a donut and watches as Banner smears soft cheese over a bagel. Once Banner takes his first bite, he begins to eat quickly, as if he has only just rediscovered his appetite. Thor matches him, and before long they have consumed all that he brought.

“Can I provide you with anything else?”

Banner shakes his head. “I should get back to work.” Thor has rarely heard a man sound so deeply tired.

“I would tell you to rest if I thought you’d heed me,” Thor offers with a smile.

Banner manages a soft smile of his own. “But you know better.”

“I do. I will leave you to it.” He stands and walks the few paces to the door before turning. “Banner?”

“Yeah?”

“You are a brave man to assist the others in a matter that troubles you so.”

He dismisses that with a shake of the head. “Just doing what I can.”

“I know,” Thor agrees, and leaves him.

~

Phil abandons any pretense at sleep early, well before the rising sun offers an excuse.

He remains in his room. Or rather, in the room into which Stark has stuck him. He made out considerably better than Rogers—there’s no sand in sight—but it’s obvious that the suite is a hastily converted library. Which, really, suits Phil fine. There’s something calming about the presence of books, even ones that he has no particular intention of reading.

He’s got other reading to do.

The reports which have come in so far contain little of substance, but he reviews them several times each anyway. The composite sketch still hasn’t come up with any matches, and they’ve now tried the full U.S. passport database in addition to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s primary files and every criminal record they can reach.

Agents have individually reviewed the files on all the most likely subjects. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s enemies, and Stark’s, and any known personal enemies of Barton or Romanoff themselves. Not a short list. Add to that everyone with a known connection to the serum and Phil is quietly proud that they’ve gotten through it already. Not that it does any good. None match Romanoff’s mockup, and only a handful are close enough to be at all plausible.

Midmorning sun streams through the window by the time Phil stands and stretches and decides that coffee has gone from an idle hope to an outright necessity. He can smell it before he enters the kitchen, and silently thanks all that's holy.

"Morning, boss," Barton greets him. Romanoff, Rogers, and Thor echo the sentiment.

Phil looks around warily. All four are seated at the kitchen table with mugs of coffee and a few scattered tablets. None appear to be doing anything in particular, and there's something deeply unsettling about that.

He makes straight for the coffee pot and pours himself the largest mug he can get his hands on. He turns to lean against the counter and holds the mug up to inhale the aroma. When he opens his eyes again, none of the others have moved, and all their eyes are on him.

He glances down at his cup. “So, sleeping powder in the coffee? Or—” He considers. “What did Stark do?”

“Nothing,” Rogers answers.

“That we know of,” Romanoff amends.

Barton moves to perch on the counter, his heels gently tapping against the cupboard below. “Just hoping for an update, boss.”

Romanoff watches Phil, her expression carefully neutral.

He blinks, and curses himself. It didn’t occur to him that they’d be waiting for information. He assumed they would be receiving Hill’s reports just as he did. Just as they would have, had it been any other mission. But they’re not agents on this one anymore—they’re subjects. And as such, S.H.I.E.L.D. policy is to keep them out of the loop.

As if that’s going to work.

“We’ve got good people on it. Sitwell, Young, Goldman and her team, half the research department. Everyone we can spare. But they haven’t come up with anything yet. They’ve reviewed the inner circle of likely suspects and are moving out a ring today.” Phil allows himself a small fond smile. “Between the three of you, there's a lot of ground to cover.”

Barton swallows and nods. His legs still for a moment, and then he hops down and moves to the stove. “You want some breakfast? We kind of demolished the donuts but there's an ungodly amount of bacon in the fridge.”

“He can really cook,” Rogers notes.

“I know,” Phil agrees fondly, thinking back on a dull but not altogether unpleasant week in a cramped apartment in Weimar. He’s never eaten so well on a mission. “That’d be great. Unless you’d like to look over the reports first?” He offers the tablet. He can’t transfer the information to Barton’s, but he can sure as hell hand his own over.

Barton gives a small, relieved smile. “Give it to Natasha. I’ll look when she’s done.” His hands move with efficient grace, cracking eggs, setting bacon to sizzle, portioning out pancake batter.

Apparently Phil’s due for quite the breakfast. A few minutes ago he would have sworn that coffee was all he really wanted but once he smells the bacon cooking he realizes that he could easily polish off everything Barton's making.

He sits, and passes the tablet to Natasha, who takes it like she's starving for the information. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

She doesn’t look up from the tablet. “You should be.” 

She means it, and it would be easy to let the words sting. Except—it speaks volumes that she expects his loyalty at all, and whole libraries that she’s willing to admit it. She could smooth things over with him as easily as breathing, assure him of her willingness to play by his rules and trust that they’re for the best. He suspects he’d believe it if she wanted him to. But she knows she doesn’t have to, and he’s pretty sure that means he’s done at least a few things right.

Romanoff’s attention doesn’t leave the tablet screen until well after he’s finished his breakfast. He shoos them all out of the kitchen as soon as he’s done, for no other reason than that the four of them staring at one another across the kitchen table is making him edgy as hell.

He should know better though. The scene just replicates itself on some couches in the living room. Barton turns on a television, but none of them really watch.

When JARVIS informs Thor that Dr. Banner has asked for his assistance, Thor goes with an expression of relief on his face.

Phil’s just about to suggest that they work off a little tension with some sparing when the elevator opens and Pepper steps off.

“Phil,” she greets him with a smile, and turns to Romanoff. “Nata—” she cuts herself off with a little laugh. “Ms. Romanoff,” she corrects.

Romanoff nods in greeting, a warm little curve to her lips.

Rogers stands and offers a hand for her to shake. “Ms. Potts.”

“Pepper, please. It’s good to meet you, Captain Rogers.”

Barton stays seated but reaches up to offer his hand as well. “Clint Barton,” he introduces himself.

“Of course. Good to meet you.” She looks over to Phil. “Not that I’m not glad to see you, Phil, and you’re looking well by the way, but what are you doing here?”

He hears Stark on his way down the hallway and glances back, all too glad of the distraction.

She must read the hesitation in his face. “What happened?” She asks, her voice suddenly low with dread. “There was something in Detroit, and—” She turns to face Stark. “What happened?”

Stark’s face is lined, and the bright daylight of the room seems to pain him. He manages a light tone anyway. “There’s good news and bad news. Good news is I’m going to be an extra-super super-hero. Bad news is those guys are too.” He grins and gestures at Barton and Romanoff. “Stealing my thunder,” he mutters with mock irritation.

Pepper doesn’t respond. She eyes Stark warily, for all the world like a bird a hair’s breadth from taking flight.

“Really, Pep— Pepper. We’re OK. We just need to lie low for a bit, figure things out. You like when I stay in one place, keeps me out of trouble. Cheaper for the company—well, maybe not this time, but—”

“What. Happened?” she demands through clenched teeth.

Phil clears his throat. “Stark and the others were injected with the super soldier serum. We’re currently determining by whom, and what the results will be. But so far they seem to be fine.”

“Thank you,” she says, with real gratitude in her voice. But her eyes haven’t left Stark and a deep crease marks her brow. She takes a long, slow breath and finally turns back to Phil, all business. “OK. What do you need?”

Not for the first time, Phil considers whether there’s any chance of recruiting her. She’d be an outstanding handler. Now’s probably not the time, but really, it’s something to look into. “We’re well provided for, thank you. Dr. Banner’s in the lab researching, and the rest of us are keeping tabs on the investigation and offering what help we can.”

Pepper gives a tight nod, and looks to Stark again. “Well, I guess this explains the emergency remodel. I assume you’re on this floor because—”

“Yeah,” Stark agrees. “Thanks for burying the expense.”

Pepper sighs. “Any time, apparently.”

“I trust you’re taking care of camouflaging the food we’re bringing in and so on?” Phil asks.

“JARVIS is on it,” Stark answers. “Not hard in a building with thousands of employees working the kind of hours my employees work.” Pepper makes a little coughing noise. “Her employees. Whatever.”

Phil nods. “We’re also going to have to figure out a cover for your absence from the spotlight. Romanoff, Barton, and Banner are already pretty low profile, and we can make excuses for Rogers or pull him out for anything really important. I don’t think anybody can keep tabs on what realm Thor’s in anyway, so he shouldn’t be missed. But you—”

“Already covered. You may not have noticed, but I flew to Malibu last night, where I enjoyed some very expensive champagne and a couple of very flexible strippers. I’ll stay there for a few weeks and get a really obscene amount of booze brought in. And probably more strippers.” Stark points to Pepper with one thumb. “The breakup finally hit home, and I’m going to be on a private bender for the foreseeable future.”

Pepper rolls her eyes. “They’re going to tar and feather me in the tabloids,” she complains.

“We can leak evidence I cheated on you,” Stark offers. “You’ll look like a saint. Woman scorned, soldiers on, bravely puts up with her asshole ex to kick some Fortune 500 ass, etcetera.”

“Thanks, I’ll pass. We’re paying enough women to lie about you. Someone has to think of the budget.”

Rogers looks up. “So you pay strippers to claim that they... performed for you?”

Stark shrugs. “Why not?”

“You don’t think they’ll also gossip about why you weren’t actually there?”

“Paying them a lot of money not to. Anyway, if it gets out, everybody will focus on the obvious conclusion.”

Rogers blinks. “Which is?”

Stark grins. “That I’m so far in the closet I can see Narnia.”

Rogers still looks confused.

“That he’s gay, and trying to hide it,” Pepper explains. “Tabloids love that kind of thing.”

“Oh. And you think people will buy that _he_ ’s—”

“Desperately overcompensating?” Phil supplies. “Yeah, I like our odds on that one.” He has to admit, it’s a decent plan. “When did you come up with this?”

Pepper frowns at the question, but when Stark answers his tone is light. “Genius, remember?”

Phil doesn’t roll his eyes. Much. “Who could forget?"

"Phil, can your people provide security for the Malibu house? Tony does have staff there, so..."

Stark nods. "Good thought. Rhodey's on it for now, but he's got better things to do."

"We'll have a detail there within the hour to relieve Colonel Rhodes," Phil agrees. "I appreciate your help, Pepper.”

She glances back at the elevator and then at Stark, and finally her gaze moves to Phil, her lower lip caught delicately between her teeth. “You’ve got this under control?”

“We’re doing everything we can.”

They all know it’s not an answer. It’s just the best he’s got.

~

After the first couple of hours that Natasha, Clint, and Coulson spend huddled over Coulson’s tablet in a tight little knot, Stark and Rogers take the hint and adjourn to the lounge, pulling Thor with them when he emerges from Banner’s lab.

Around hour three they’re really scraping the barrel, but with nothing better to do, Natasha’s not ready to stop rehashing the little data they’ve got. “They’re checking significant others?”

“Of course.” Coulson looks a little offended. Which is fair. Of course they’re checking the husbands and wives and fiancées and dates of all first level subjects—that’s basic protocol.

“Co-authors? Advisees? Academics with security credentials are a mess—professors can’t keep their fucking mouths shut.”

Coulson nods. “A good point. They’d be considered under general associates, but I can get Sitwell to bump that category up the list.”

Clint frowns over the data on Coulson’s tablet and blows out a long breath. “And nothing on the 'bot design?”

“Still no,” Coulson confirms. “No unusual metals, no hard-to-source parts. The specs are reasonably sophisticated but our people still haven’t come up with anything to them that a few dozen robotics labs couldn’t match. No report yet from the team looking into the labs. It’s gonna take time.”

Natasha watches Clint’s jaw tense and then deliberately release.

“I hate this,” he says finally.

Natasha snorts. “Not exactly a dream vacation.”

“Have you ever even taken a vacation?”

She laughs a little. The answer’s no, she hasn’t. Somehow it never occurred to her before. “OK, _is_ this like one?”

He shrugs. “How would I know?”

There’s ill-concealed sadness in Coulson’s face as he regards them both, and it worms its way under Natasha’s skin with a sentimental pang that makes her own jaw clench. “This isn’t much of a vacation,” he agrees. “Then again, as I dimly recall, vacations never were all they’re cracked up to be.”

They sit in silence for a moment. Natasha lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding when JARVIS provides a welcome interruption.

“Ms. Romanoff, Dr. Banner has requested your presence in the lab.” She tenses. Maybe not that welcome.

“How come you got picked first?” Clint mock-complains.

She stands and dusts imaginary dirt off the front of her pants.

“I could come with,” he offers, and Natasha considers.

“If he just asked for me, there’s probably a reason.”

Clint shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

She nods, squares her shoulders, and passes through the lab doors.

The lab must take up half the floor, but it’s still crammed full of equipment. Computer screens and holographic projectors dot the room, along with all manner of tech, only some of which Natasha can name. It’s all more or less what she would expect, except that in one corner the lab equipment has all been shoved to the side and replaced with a treadmill and weights.

She turns her attention to Banner, who sits at a long lab bench near the door. Several screens in front of him display various data, but he ignores it in favor of scribbling on a sheaf of paper in front of him. He makes a few more notations before looking up at her with a nod of greeting. 

“What can I do for you, Doc?”

He slides off his stool. “I need to gather some information, to see how the serum is affecting you. Questions, tests, that sort of thing.”

She nods, and can’t quite keep the tension out of her voice. “Of course.”

“You get to say no to any of this.”

She snorts. “Pretty words, Doc, but we both know that isn’t true.”

He sucks in a quick breath and blows it out slowly. She tenses, and her eyes meet his, searching for any flecks of green. For a second she thinks she sees them, but then they’re gone, and she isn’t sure it wasn’t a trick of the light. “It would be helpful if you agree,” he tells her carefully. “It could speed up the research, improve my findings. But you can walk out that door” he nods to the lab’s entrance, “any time you want. Anybody who tells you anything else is going to have a long talk with other guy about it, whether I like it or not.”

The hard edge to his voice ties knots in her stomach, and she has to fight to keep her posture relaxed. He’s overreacting. It means she touched a nerve, means she doesn’t know what not to say around him. Means she isn’t safe. But, she reminds herself, breathing almost as carefully as he is, none of his anger is at her. It’s _for_ her, and given their history, she has no idea why that would be. He hasn’t got any reason to give a damn what happens to her.

But, she supposes, he’s got every reason to give a damn about what he does himself. Doesn’t want to turn into what he most fears. She swallows. She can understand that.

“OK. Thanks. But I really don’t mind. Where do we start?”

He runs her through a series of tests—how much can she bench press, how much can she squat, how fast can she run on a treadmill, her reflexes and accuracy with moving targets. She’s sweating when it’s done, and gratefully accepts the bottle of water Banner passes to her.

“How did that compare to your usual abilities? Did any of it seem easier for you than before? Or harder?”

Natasha frowns. Fixating on how much you can lift or how fast you can run is nothing but bullshit posturing, and she doesn’t go in for that. The numbers are worthless in the field—brute force or speed are never as important as knowing what to do with them. “I don’t know. Not very different, I think.”

“You’re... very strong. Exceptional on all the tests, even for an extremely fit woman of your age.“

“Red Room trains ‘em up strong.”

“Red Room?”

She blinks. “You didn’t read my file?”

“I was waiting on permission.”

“How— Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. Do I have it?”

“Knock yourself out.”

“Would you rather I read it, or would you rather tell me?”

She shrugs. “Which gets this done faster?”

“Give me the brief rundown? Especially anything relevant to your medical history.”

She hops up on a lab bench. “When we first met, in Kolkata, you asked if spies start as young as that girl I hired.”

“I remember. You told me that you did.”

“I started a little earlier than that. More or less at birth.” It’s an old story, and one that gets a reliable reaction. Everyone expects her to get weepy about it, to mourn for the loss of her mother and father, to pine for the childhood she never had. But there’s no hole in her heart. She’s from a different place, that’s all. A vile place that she personally watched burn to the ground, but that doesn’t mean she’s sentimental for something she missed. “I was raised in a facility called the Red Room, and trained for espionage.”

There’s less horror on his face than she expected, but in its place there’s a soft compassion that somehow isn’t pity. She doesn’t like it anyway.

“As far as medical history, that’s a little hazier. You won’t find my family history in my file, and I’m afraid I never knew most of what they gave me. I’ve always assumed immunizations, steroids of some kind, poison prophylactics.” She shrugs. “Definitely poisons, from time to time, so we’d know what they felt like. And psychotropics—for the conditioning.” She watches for his reaction to that, but he just nods mildly and adds it to his notes. “When I came over to S.H.I.E.L.D. they ran a lot of tests, but I don’t think they figured out much about any of what I got.”

He gives a little nod, brief enough that she almost doesn’t notice it. Then he turns away to a bench to pick up a syringe, and some sample containers. “I’d like to take another blood sample, if I could, and a cheek swab and a urine sample.”

He’s moved on quickly—not what she expected. But she accepts it, goes through the motions of providing the samples. When it’s finished, he sends her to a computer to run through a battery of cognitive tests. They’re immediately familiar. S.H.I.E.L.D. uses the same program whenever agents receive any sort of head trauma. When she’s done, she returns to where Banner’s busy shifting readings around on his screen. 

“You know I didn’t hit my head, right?”

He pokes at the computer screen a couple more times before turning to her with a strained smile. “I know. But I wanted something that we had a baseline for, and given S.H.I.E.L.D.’s policy I figured you’d have at least a couple of results in your file.”

“But you didn’t look.” 

“I will now. I have permission. Right?”

“You crack me up, Doc. Yes. Look at whatever you want. Just figure out what the hell this is.”

“Yeah.”

“So I’m done?”

He pauses.

“Doc?” she asks softly. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He thinks for a moment, and when he finally speaks his voice is soft. “Steroids don’t cause permanent improvements in strength.”

She knows that. She just never really thought about it. There wasn’t any point in trying to figure out what S.H.I.E.L.D.’s best medical staff hadn’t been able to. And, for the most part, she’s good at not thinking about something when there isn’t any use in it. Even now, facing the sneaking suspicion that there is in fact a point, there are some dots that she doesn’t want to connect on her own. “Say it,” she tells him.

“I think you were already exposed to small doses of the serum, or a variant on it. Probably more than once. Probably starting when you were very young.”

She swallows. “So is that good or bad?”

“I don’t know.” He says it like an apology. “Probably a little bit of both. Gives us a better sense of what the serum does long term, absent significant radiation exposure. But—“

“—but I’ve got more of the stuff in my system than we thought. So if I get irradiated—?”

“The effect on you might be more significant.” He stands, throws his hands up in the air. “Or less,” he adds. “I haven’t had time to come to any conclusions. There were anomalies in your bloodwork, but I honestly didn’t put the pieces together until just now. It’s going to take time for me to come up with anything concrete.”

She nods. He’s doing the best he can. Her impatience, her need to know what’s pumping through her veins and what it’s going to do to her—to all of them—isn’t going to help anything. But that doesn’t do a damned thing to make it go away. “Work fast, Doc.”

~

Barton’s examination goes fine. He has a better sense of his physical benchmarks than Romanoff, which could be helpful. He remains within the parameters he described—at the high end, but as he goes through the routine of weights and speed and targeting, there’s nothing he can do that he never could before. Then again, the last few days aren’t the best of circumstances, so marginal gains could easily be obscured by sleep deprivation and anxiety.

Anxiety the man clearly has, and Bruce can’t help but feel sorry for him. But he does his best to keep it out of his face—no one appreciates pity, and Barton less than most, Bruce would wager. And anyway, Barton may not have Romanoff’s skill at schooling his facial expressions, but he’s not bad. Bruce can read the dread in his body language only because it’s an emotion with which Bruce is so intimately familiar. He suspects that Barton knows what Bruce can see, but there’s nothing overt to any of it, and they can both politely pretend to have missed it altogether.

There’s something to be said for honesty, but strategic obliviousness has its advantages too.

Barton leaves with a friendly smile, promising to find Stark and send him in. Bruce could just have JARVIS summon Stark, of course, but he could use a few minutes to get his notes in order anyway, and Barton seems to like the idea of having a mission, even one so small as that.

When Stark arrives, he looks about as well as Bruce suspected he would, which isn’t very. 

“Mind if I use one of your IV lines for a few?” Stark asks as he walks through the door and straight towards one of the lab’s cupboards. “I hear I’m up for calisthenics, and I could use some saline.”

“How much did you drink last night?” Bruce has some idea from the state he was in when they talked, but he suspects that Tony’s night didn’t end there.

“Enough,” he answers, pulling out a saline bag and an IV drip and putting them together with a skill that suggests that this is far from the first time he’s tried that particular hangover cure. Then he pauses, puts the bag down, and looks up at Bruce. “Too much. I’m sorry.”

“Your liver, your problem. Though I’m pretty sure the IV isn’t an actual improvement over water and saltines.”

Stark gives him a long look. There’s a darkness around his eyes that can’t all be attributed to the hangover, and Bruce takes it as answer enough to the question of how much Stark remembers of their last conversation. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

“You’ve said that a few times now. Probably enough, OK?” He shouldn’t be pissed. Bruce knows his personal history is a lot to take in, and if he resents the fact that on each of the rare occasions he’s shared it, _he’s_ had to be the one offering reassurance, well, there’s no point in getting himself worked up over the inevitable. 

“Right,” Stark agrees, his usual air of forced exuberance drawing up around him like a shield. “So it’s lab rat time, right? Do I get a wheel? Or…” He looks around. “Treadmill, huh? OK.”

“Start with bench presses. Do you know what you generally press?”

“Two fifty, two fifty five. On a reasonably good day.” 

Bruce moves over to the bench and finds the right weights. “I’ll spot you, and you can try a little under that. Then we can see if you can go up, or need to go down, from there.”

Stark strips off his dress shirt and moves to position himself on the bench. 

Bruce looks down at him, taking in the glow of the arc reactor through the thin material of his undershirt, the way the muscles of his arms stand out when he starts to lift, the patch of skin that shows where the motion shifts the undershirt just a little bit away from his slacks.

Bruce takes a quick breath and controls himself. What the hell he’s thinking he surely doesn’t know. Stark is practically a patient. And why the hell his thoughts would be straying now, as they didn’t with Romanoff or Barton—both exceptionably attractive specimens themselves—he can’t say.

Stark grunts a little as he lifts, and Bruce firmly banishes any thoughts he might have about the sound. “OK, how was that?” Bruce asks.

“That was what, two forty? I can do more.”

Bruce adds a couple of weights and Stark tries again. His arms tremble a little, but he manages to perform the lift and set the weight down again with reasonable control.

“More. I think.”

“You sure?”

“Give it a shot.”

Bruce adds a little more—up to two sixty now—and Stark manages to lift that too. Just barely, and without much by way of control, but he does it.

“Okay, that’s about enough of that,” Stark concludes.

Bruce nods and notes down the results. “Running now?”

“Sure thing. Just give me a sec.” Stark puts his hand in the air, clearly expecting Bruce to give him a hand sitting up, and Bruce does, feeling the warm, firm pressure of Stark’s grip.

They run through the treadmill, the dexterity tests, the sample collection. “I don’t suppose that there are any cognitive tests you’d have baseline readings for?”

“An IQ test? Technically I’m off the charts. That’s not ego, by the way, it’s literally true—function of the way they designed the tests.”

Bruce let his lips quirk up into a smile. “I’m aware. I was thinking more along the lines of memory, reaction speed, and so on. JARVIS, access the S.H.I.E.L.D. cognitive function test, and run it for Stark. Scale up to make it a challenge if Mr. Off-the-Charts is too good.”

“It would be my pleasure, Dr. Banner.”

That set of tests gives Bruce a few minutes to review the results gathered so far. The data remain frustratingly sparse, and none of the readings fall outside normal ranges, but everything points in the same direction. It could be coincidence, but he doubts it. His eyes haven’t moved from the display when Stark appears behind him, apparently finished with the tests.

“So, what do we got?”

“Nothing’s sure yet, but by all indications the serum is having an effect around the margins. All three of you are at the top of your game on all the tests we’ve got baselines for, and frankly, none of you should be.”

“Better, faster, stronger, I can live with that. But nothing on what happens if—?”

“If it’s catalyzed?” He turns to face Stark. “Not yet. I’ve got some models, but they’re still too rough to tell us anything.”

“But you still think it’s related to… character?” Stark loads a world of disdain onto the word.

Bruce sighs. “That would be an oversimplification. But… something like that.”

“Huh.” Stark turns away, and Bruce can see the muscles of his back tense. 

He focuses on the source of the tension, and shoos away any other thoughts on the subject. “Isn’t that good news?”

Stark turns back with a nasty little snort. “Have you met me?” he asks, his voice dark.

“Yeah,” Bruce tells him, honestly. “I have.” Stark’s got his flaws—plenty of them, truth be told. But none of them explain why the theory has Stark all tied up in knots. Bruce initially assumed that Stark’s objection was purely philosophical. Bruce could appreciate the need to keep their theorizing within the usual channels of scientific thought, even if he was pretty sure that those channels were thoroughly inadequate to the stormy present. But none of that explains the way he’s acting.

Stark gives him an appraising look, and finally shakes his head. “Yeah, well, I’ve got to go do something about this hangover. Vodka beats saline any day.”

And with that he leaves, letting the lab doors slide smoothly shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Red Room aren't big on medical privacy. Who knew?


	5. There is a Monster at the End of this Fic (it isn’t Grover)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short and light(ish) one. Should be a more substantive update up at the end of the week.

Steve opens his eyes just as the first light of dawn filters through his window. His room may be filled with rocks and sand, now swept and piled in the corners, but the morning light glows on the papery finish of the walls and gives the whole room an air of bright calm.

Putting him in here may have been a practical joke of Stark's, but Steve's actually kind of glad. He should remember to make sure Stark knows it.

He jogs down to the sparring room and allows himself to sink into the soothing routine of his morning calisthenics. When he leaves he's sweaty but awake and alert. 

Romanoff passes him before he reaches his room. “You mind if I take the gym?” she asks.

“All yours,” he agrees. “But you don’t have to wait until I’m done—I don’t mind the company.”

“No offense, Cap, but I could use the time alone.”

He nods. Group living can’t be new to her, but under the circumstances he can see where anyone might want a little solitude.

Not him, though. Not right now, anyway. He showers quickly and heads down the hall. He can smell coffee brewing before he reaches the living room, and he’s glad that he won’t be the first one there.

Not even close to the first one, as it turns out. Barton stands by the stove, watching something in a large frying pan, and Thor and Coulson sit at the table, hands curled around mugs of coffee. Their conversation confuses Steve at first—Thor seems to be describing some kind of battle, but as he listens longer he realizes it’s actually a hunt, the end result of which is apparently a traditional Asgardian breakfast.

“I usually just have raisin bran,” Coulson tells him. “Not all that exciting, but it’s convenient.”

“Any word from Banner?” Steve asks.

“Still in the lab,” Coulson answers.

“I brought him coffee and toast, but he would accept nothing more,” Thor added. “He is hard at work.”

Steve nods and crosses the kitchen to pour himself coffee. Pausing next to the stove, he peers over Barton’s shoulder. “What are you making?”

“Stuffed french toast. I figure we could all use some comfort food.”

“What is it… stuffed with?”

“Cream cheese, walnuts, cinnamon,” Barton lists off. “A little over the top, but it’s worth it.”

“Smells great,” Steve tells him. “I’m glad we’ve got someone around here who’s good in the kitchen. I could never cook worth a damn.”

“You could make this, trust me. It isn’t rocket science.”

“If you say so.”

Barton grabs his hand and thrusts the spatula into it. “All right, cooking lesson, now.”

Steve smiles a little at his demanding tone. There’s warm humor to it, and Steve will gladly welcome anything that takes any of them away from the dull ache of tension. “You’re sure you don’t mind coaching me?”

“What the hell else do I have to do?” He points to the pan. “This one’s almost done, you just need to flip it carefully so the slices don’t separate.”

Steve gives it a shot, and the little sandwich of cream cheese and whatever else lands on its other side, only a little the worse for the somersault.

“That’s good, that’s fine,” Barton assures him in a way that makes Steve think he’s messed up something that Barton never would have. 

But that’s OK with him.

They devote the next half hour to assembling and passing around the decadent little piles of bread and sweet cheese and egg batter, and by the time they’re done Steve really does have the hang of it. When he digs into his own plate the crisp edges of the bread melt in his mouth, releasing the creamy, spicy centers, and he has to admit that it beats any french toast he’s ever had.

“Thanks,” he tells Barton.

Barton laughs. “Hey, I just taught Captain America how to make french toast. That would be like my nine year old self’s dream come true.”

“You’ve been cooking that long?”

Barton shrugs. “It’s useful. And this kitchen makes it a hell of a lot easier than a camping stove.”

Steve nods. He doesn’t pry. He’s read Barton’s file, and if cooking for himself was the worst he had to do when he was that age, well, Steve knows perfectly well that it probably wasn’t. But Barton’s never shown any interest in talking about it before, so there’s no reason Steve should think now is any different.

Steve insists on taking over the cleanup, though with a dishwashing machine and garbage disposal there’s hardly anything to do. When he’s got the kitchen as spic and span as he’s able he moves to the living room, where Stark has finally emerged, and he and Coulson huddle over a tablet, discussing the ‘bots in Detroit.

Steve doesn’t have a lot to add on that subject, so he joins Barton and Thor on the couch, where Barton idly flips through channels on the television.

“So many stories disinterest you,” Thor notes.

“Trust me,” Barton tells him, “they’d disinterest you too. Fifty-seven channels and nothing on.”

“It seems like more than that,” Steve notes.

“Yeah, it’s a— nevermind. Hey, Iron Chef.” He puts down the remote and gives an amused grin to Thor and Steve.

Steve eyes the television, not quite able to make out what’s going on. But apparently it’s something Barton likes, or that Barton expects to get a rise out of them, Steve can’t tell which. People on the screen scurry around a strangely opulent kitchen while an announcer breathlessly describes their cooking techniques.

It’s nothing like the cartoons and newsreels and films Steve’s used to. He’s been in this time for almost a year—almost a year and if feels like so much longer that he can hardly believe it isn’t—but he’s never really taken the time to watch any television.

Even now it feels strange to just sit and keep his gaze on the screen. His life of late has been a flurry of activity—drills and missions and plans and catching up on all the history and technology that passed him by while he lay deep in the ice. On the insistence of some of his S.H.I.E.L.D. colleagues, that catch-up included a handful of movies and novels, but from the way they spoke about television shows, the whole enterprise seemed far too daunting and time-consuming to wade into.

Today, though, time-consuming has a certain appeal. He tried to help Coulson with his work tracking down the woman who set all this in motion, but it didn’t take him long to figure out that even most of the work Coulson was doing was more to allow him and Barton and Romanoff to have something to do than it was of any real use to anybody. S.H.I.E.L.D. has plenty of excellent agents investigating, and they’ve got the advantage that they aren’t confined to Stark Tower.

Steve’s just starting to get a feel for the show—who the contestants are and why they’re so fixated on putting sweet potatoes into everything—when Coulson appears behind them.

“Who are you rooting for?” he asks Barton.

“Sakai. But the other guy’s pretty good.”

“The challenger handles his blade well,” Thor objects. “I would wager on him to win the contest.”

Coulson chuckles and finds himself a seat.

Steve looks around, itching to do something of use, but he hasn’t got any duties to attend to, and the apartment is already spotless. He gives himself over to the slightly ridiculous contest on the television, ultimately siding with Barton in support of Sakai, and faintly pleased in spite of himself when the host reveals him to be the winner.

Barton starts up with a color commentary on the second episode—the television station is apparently playing what Barton refers to as a “marathon” of the show—and the rest of them offer their own opinions here and there, with even Stark looking up from his work from time to time to chime in.

He wonders if this is how normal people watch television. He wonders if any of them would really know.

Romanoff shows up halfway through the second episode, and all six of them stay for the third and fourth, and really, do they not have anything better to do?

They kind of don’t.

Even so, Steve’s embarrassed when Banner, who’s been working himself down to the bone, emerges from the lab to find them all sitting around watching “Battle: Scallop.”

But Banner doesn’t even look at the television. He glares at Stark, who’s still vaguely poking at his tablet, presumably tweaking search parameters for tracking down the origins of the ‘bots.

“JARVIS just froze all of my equipment.” Steve tenses at the irritation in Banner’s tone. “Says he won’t unfreeze it until I eat something. Will you please talk to him?”

Stark doesn’t look up from the specs. “Believe me when I tell you it’s faster for you to just have lunch. Be glad he isn’t making you sleep too.”

“How did you not design a way to overrule him? If he goes all Skynet on us, I’m going to make sure everyone knows it’s your damned fault.”

“I assure you, Dr. Banner, I am merely prioritizing your wellbeing,” JARVIS interjects. “Just the opposite of the difficulty encountered in the Terminator franchise.”

“I don’t need an electronic nanny, thanks.”

“Permit me to point out that hunger and sleep deprivation are well documented contributors to negative emotional states.”

Banner takes a long breath, and Steve sees Romanoff’s hand move to hover just over her tranq gun. Barton eyes the bow he left next to the couch, but when he stands, he bypasses it and heads for the kitchen.

Stark finally looks up from the tablet to see Banner’s eyes on him. 

“Really?” Banner demands. “You’ve got your damn computer monitoring my mental health?”

“He takes initiative, remember? JARVIS, lay off. Ban—“ he pauses, tries again. “Bruce, when _is_ the last time you slept for more than twenty consecutive minutes?”

Banner rubs the back of his neck with one hand. “Day before yesterday,” he admits.

Stark stands and walks over to hand his tablet to Coulson. “This should be what you need.” He turns back to Banner. “ _You_ need to sleep, and when it’s me telling you that, you know you’re in trouble.”

Banner shakes his head. “There’s too much to do.”

“Let me take over. JARVIS will show me where you left off, I’ll take a look with fresh eyes. Sleep for a few hours and then you can come back and be dazzled by my work.”

Banner hesitates, and lets out a breath. “Let me walk you through the model so far, and then, yeah, a nap’s not a bad idea.”

Stark nods.

“After Stark kicks you out of the lab,” Barton calls from the kitchen, “come have lunch before that nap. Grilled cheese and tomato soup good?”

Steve’s pretty sure he doesn’t need his enhanced hearing to notice the little rumble from Banner’s stomach.

“Yeah,” Banner agrees, his voice weary but touched with real gratitude. “That would be nice.” 

~

Bruce wakes up in a bed. Not a bedroll or some army surplus cot, but a real, honest-to-God bed with a firm mattress and sheets that may actually be the softest things he’s ever touched. He stretches, basking in the luxurious sensation, before forcing himself all the way awake.

“JARVIS, time?”

“The time is seven twenty-three.”

“Seven— Shit.” Bruce springs out of the bed, grabs his glasses, and scrambles to get his pants on. “I told you to wake me up at four.”

“Mr. Stark overruled that request. His exact words were ‘Banner’s going to be useless if he doesn’t get more than a couple hours of sleep.’”

 _Useless._ “Gee, thanks.” Rolling his eyes is unlikely to hurt the feelings of an overgrown computer, but Bruce tries anyway.

“Mr. Stark advises that he will be prepared to update you on the project in half an hour. He suggests that I inform you that the showers in Stark Tower are exceptionally pleasant.”

Bruce debates heading straight for the lab anyway, but a shower does sound fantastic, and he could stand to clear his head.

As hot water pulses against his skin and steam billows around him, Bruce feels a pang of guilt for taking the time. Every moment he wastes is another moment that Romanoff and Barton and Stark get to spend wondering what’s going to happen to them, and Bruce knows too well that the tension’s getting to all three already.

On the other hand, he has to admit that Tony’s right—he was going to be useless if he didn’t get some rest, and once he gets to the lab he should be better able to make real progress. Besides, in the interim, Tony may have come up with something he’d never have considered. The way that man thinks…. Bruce smiles faintly and shakes his head.

He towels off and dresses in a set of clean clothes that JARVIS directs him to in the expansive walk-in closet. Everything’s new and stiff, but the styles are pleasantly simple and even he can tell that the fabrics are of excellent quality. He hasn’t got the faintest idea what they cost, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know.

He allows himself a moment to look around his rooms. They’re lovely—designed with the same gentle naturalism that marks the common spaces. The front room is lined with handsome wooden bookcases crammed full of journals, texts, novels. Bruce peruses the titles with a sensation not unlike glee. He’s missed so many years of research. He followed as best he could, but you can’t exactly get the Annual Review of Biophysics at your average newsstand. 

The selection of novels ranges across genres and centuries, but the most extensive section is devoted to classic science fiction. Bruce smiles and wonders if Stark somehow knew what he liked or just made an educated guess about the tastes of your average science geek. Probably the latter.

Tucked away at one end of a shelf, a gold spine, too slender for a novel, catches his eye. Bruce pulls it out and has to laugh when he sees the title: “The Monster at the end of this Book, starring Lovable, Furry Old Grover.” He pages through it, and realizes immediately why it’s here. Grover spends the book urging the reader not to progress towards the titular monster, only to discover that the monster is only Grover himself. “Subtle, Stark,” he mutters to himself, but the smile doesn’t leave his lips.

He sticks the book under his arm and makes his way back to the lab.

Tony doesn’t look up when Bruce arrives, and he continues his work without even acknowledging Bruce’s presence until Bruce gives a little cough.

Then Tony turns and looks him up and down. “Considerably less corpse-like,” he approves. “And showered. Showered is a good look on you.”

Bruce flushes. He assumes that Stark of all people would understand that sometimes you can’t take a break from what you’re doing even for the length of a shower. But he hopes he didn’t push it too far for polite company.

“Relax, I didn’t mean— You look good, is all.”

And then Bruce flushes for an entirely different reason, and speaks quickly to try to distract from it. Unfortunately, what comes out isn’t an ideal distraction. “Thank you for… everything. The room. I wish I could stay there for weeks and read everything in it.”

Tony gives a soft smile. “That’s what it’s there for. I told you, you’re welcome to stay.”

Something about those last four words settles around Bruce’s shoulders like a blanket, soft and warm, and he smiles. “You— you put a lot of energy into all this. I didn’t realize, or—“

“Or you wouldn’t have disappeared to wherever you disappear to?”

No. The room, the whole place, and yes, Tony’s company too soothes aches Bruce almost managed to forget he had. But after New York, and again after Port-au-Prince, well, he had other things he needed to do. “I would have been more polite about it,” he offers.

“Fair enough. And anyway it’s really no big thing. I’m a bazillionaire, so…” He blows out air dismissively.

“And you’ve got a hundred things demanding your attention, and you clearly put some thought into—” Bruce wants to say “me,” but he can’t manage it. “—All this.”

Tony shrugs. “It’s really no big thing. Everybody on the team got a floor—we just ended up invading yours. All I did was hire a designer, told him a couple of things about everybody, and he went forth and spent my money.”

Bruce smiles and puts the book down in front of Tony. “Then your designer has some real chutzpah.”

A slightly strangled look crosses Stark’s face. “Oh. Yeah, OK, that was me,” he admits.

“I thought you might need it back,” Bruce suggests.

Tony snorts. “Hah. Good one.” He picks up the book and tosses it to an out of the way space on the lab bench. “We’ll see,” he notes, the good humor largely gone from his voice.

Bruce winces. He hates to have ended the pleasant conversation and chased away Tony’s brief good mood. But he can’t take it back. All he can do is move forward. “Shall we get to work? Catch me up on all your brilliant progress.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually try to avoid a lot of random pop culture in fics, but for some reason I just could not help myself in this chapter. So, um, sorry?


	6. Rather Bear Those Ills We Have (flying doesn’t help)

The third morning in the Tower breaks dark and brooding, and Clint likes it. The sun of the prior two days felt jarring, and the rain battering against the indestructible windows suits Clint’s mood just fine.

By the time Clint gets to the kitchen, Natasha, Coulson, and Thor are already there. They sit around the table with their coffee cups clutched in white-knuckled hands, and Clint immediately realizes that something beyond the usual tension has gotten to them.

“What?” he asks, swallowing around a cold lump of dread in his throat.

“Banner and Stark have been up all night,” Natasha tells him. “JARVIS says they’re nearly ready to report some findings.”

“Oh.” The lump sinks to his stomach, weighing him down like lead shot. His appetite flees before it, but if they’re getting bad news, Clint figures they shouldn’t do it without breakfast. A man he knew in the circus, a sword swallower with a cheerfully rounded gut and a bawdy sense of humor, always said that a full belly was the best defense against bad news. Of course, when the man’s wife announced, immediately after lunch and in full view of the whole company, that she was running off with someone else, his fully belly didn’t seem to help him much. Still, somehow the advice stuck with Clint, and he thinks of it now.

He pulls out a set of mixing bowls and throws together batter, apportions it out into muffin tins, and sets them to bake. He fries bacon and makes stacks of toast and scrambles a couple dozen eggs.

Natasha eyes him with concern, but when he asks her to cut up melon for a fruit salad, she does it without comment.

Rogers arrives not long before Clint finishes the food, takes one look at the spread, and goes to the dining room to set the table. The five of them ferry in the heaping serving dishes, and then sit, serving themselves and proceeding to pick listlessly at the food before them.

Thor’s appetite seems hearty at first, but when he notices that no one else is really eating, he too lays down his fork.

It would never before have occurred to Clint that Hell, should such a place exist, might consist of friends around a table well laden with food, but it occurs to him now. He can almost hear the ticking of a clock, though he’s sure that no clock in the entire place makes that soft little tick-tick-tick that could drive an otherwise perfectly sane man right over the edge.

Banner and Stark finally enter and sit down. Stark picks up the coffee carafe and pours himself a large mug, but otherwise neither takes anything.

“I’m sorry to keep you all waiting,” Banner begins. “This is still— Look, it’s not like we have peer reviewed research here or anything. These aren’t much more than educated guesses, and I— we— could still be very badly wrong.”

“We understand, Dr. Banner,” Coulson assures him. “We’re aware of the difficulty of what we’ve asked you to do.”

Banner nods. “Thank you. So what we think we know is this. You did all get the serum, and it’s for all practical purposes the same one that caused Rogers’ transition, and mine, and,” he sighs, “Schmidt’s transformation into Red Skull, and Blonsky’s into the Abomination. In all of those cases we believe that some form of gamma radiation catalyzed the reaction. The radiation doses apparently varied, but that doesn’t seem to make much difference in the way it affects the body. Any radiation dose above a certain level—and our models indicate that that level is fairly low, almost certainly a non-fatal dosage—will have a similar catalytic effect.”

Clint swallows. He’s all too aware of the deficits in his education, so maybe he’s missing something, but none of that sounds like good news.

“The serum does appear to have some effects absent a catalyzing event, but they are mostly beneficial. Based on the tests the three of you did yesterday and the day before, strength, speed, and cognitive function seem to be very slightly improved. The data aren’t good enough to say for sure, but that’s what it looks like. The serum will continue to improve function, but very gradually, and it will likely never amount to anything conspicuous.”

“Nobody’s going to end up like Cap from the serum alone,” Stark adds.

“Right,” Banner agrees. “The other important thing that the serum has done is to create elevated levels of a specialized kind of myostatin in the blood stream. The myostatin is what responds to gamma radiation, and frankly we still don’t understand how it operates well at all. But it does look like the amount of it in the blood stream should contribute to the magnitude of any effects of the gamma radiation. And,” he takes a deep breath, and Clint winces, “it can replicate itself, and builds in the blood stream over time. So the longer the period between the injection and the radiation exposure, the larger the effect the radiation will have.”

Clint glances at Natasha, sitting to one side of him. Her face has gone white, and she’s trembling just a little. Without thinking, he reaches out under the table to grab her hand, and he’s almost surprised when she grabs him back, squeezing hard enough to hurt.

Banner looks at her too, and opens his mouth to speak, closes it, and tries again. “Natasha,” he pauses as if concerned that she’ll take offense at the familiarity, but Clint likes it. Medical guys usually keep their distance from agents, and Clint can see why, but it’s never comforting. “Based on my calculations, you must have received relatively small doses of the serum as a child.” 

Clint notes that Rogers and Thor look confused at that—Coulson doesn’t, though, and Clint wonders if Natasha told him or if he figured it out some other way. 

“Your myostatin levels are higher than—“ he pauses again for a second before continuing, “than Clint’s or Tony’s, but not by all that much. This doesn’t really change anything.”

“Except,” Stark drawls, “that it puts a choice on the table.”

“Which is?” Coulson prompts.

“If we irradiate ourselves, now, the effect should be smaller than if we wait and get irradiated some other way.”

Coulson nods grimly. “Anything on what a transition would look like?”

Banner lets out a long breath and glances at Stark, who answers. “Nothing new. But it, uh, does look like Cap may have been onto something,” he admits. “Psychological characteristics may be a factor.”

Natasha’s hand squeezes tighter around Clint’s, and he swallows hard. “And there isn’t some way to get it out of our systems?” he asks.

Banner shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s going to be possible.”

They sit in silence for a long moment. Clint eyes the piles of food, willing himself to eat something, if only to show that he can. But his hands don’t move and the food stays where it is.

“It would seem you have a decision to make,” Thor offers finally. “To face the transformation now or live with the risk that it will happen in the future.”

Silence falls again, but then Natasha speaks, her voice strangely quiet. “You missed an option.”

Clint sucks in a breath and squeezes her hand hard.

“No,” Coulson’s voice comes across the table, and for a minute Clint thinks it’s his own, because it’s exactly what he’s thinking. “He didn’t.”

She opens her mouth as if to answer, but closes it again with a small nod. 

“So what happens if we don’t?” Clint asks, his eyes on Coulson. “Do we hide in Stark Tower forever?”

“I don’t know,” Coulson admits. “S.H.I.E.L.D.’s priority has to be to protect the public from all potential threats. And as long as the results of a transformation remain unknown—“ Coulson meets Stark’s eyes, and then Natasha’s, and then Clint’s. “I’m sorry,” and Clint knows that he is. “Precautions would have to be taken. Not necessarily confinement, but—“ 

He doesn’t finish, but Clint can fill in the rest. No missions. No slipping back into civilian life—as if Clint could have done that anyway, or Natasha either. Surveillance at all times, maybe a security detail.

“We could create implants,” Banner offers cautiously, “which would monitor for any gamma exposure. It would have to be voluntary, of course, but it could minimize the risk.”

“That might be acceptable,” Coulson agrees, though his tone leaves acres of room for doubt.

“But probably not, right?” Stark demands. “Your people think they get to say what we can do, just because this happened to us?”

“Frankly? Yes.” Coulson’s tone is mild, but there’s steel in it. Clint knows perfectly well that Coulson isn’t happy with the situation, but he knows too that Coulson hasn’t got much choice.

None of them do.

~

The rest of the day passes slowly, and Phil can’t meet any of their eyes. 

He’s used to being the bad guy. The suit. The heavy. He has no objection to any of those characterizations of his job. Someone has to do it.

But there’s an implication to it this time, and that’s what he almost can’t stand.

An observer, outside or otherwise, might come to the conclusion that he doesn’t trust his team. Nothing could be further from the truth. 

But the serum—no. He can’t trust that. And he can’t trust the vague guesses that Stark and Banner have come up with on what it could do. 

And if that means that he looks like it’s his team that he can’t trust—well, he always knew that personal sacrifice came with the territory when he signed onto S.H.I.E.L.D. For a time he thought that loss of his life was the worst sacrifice S.H.I.E.L.D. could ask for, but he isn’t so sure anymore.

He shakes his head. There’s no call to be melodramatic about this. Barton and Romanoff and even Stark all understand. He’s no Judas. He’s just a guy doing a job that somebody has to.

The others retire to the lounge around eighteen hundred, and Phil can’t bring himself to join them. They deserve a little time without the designated representative of S.H.I.E.L.D. hanging around, and anyway, just now he can’t stand the idea of being there while any of them wish he wasn’t.

He wonders if any of them will choose to get the whole thing over with. Between Stark and Banner, it surely wouldn’t take long to put together a replica of the “Vita Ray” machine Stark’s father used in Project Rebirth. And then, at least, it would be done. They’d know.

But Phil can’t say he’d choose it if he were in their place.

He swipes his tablet awake and calls up video from the team’s mission in Haiti. He was still on health leave when it happened, but he got all the reports, so he knows what went down. He watched the video at the time, though he was still on painkillers then, and their comfortable haze probably shielded him from the worst of it. 

Now he watches it again, forcing himself to remember that he’s right to be concerned—right to be a hard-ass, even to the people he trusts most in the world.

The footage shows a long stretch of pavement, nearly empty at first. Then, in the distance, a spiny beast of a man staggers into view, propelled by the harsh light of Stark’s energy weapon. The Abomination opens his mouth in a roar that the camera, wired for video only, didn’t record. 

The figure gives a great backhand to someone off screen, and Phil knows from the reports that it’s Stark, and that the blow caused damage enough that he wouldn’t have the Iron Man suit flying again for eight whole minutes.

An arrow appears, seemingly out of nowhere, sinking into the back of one of the Abomination’s calves. He grabs at the arrow, tugging, then roars again and breaks it off, limping badly now. He lurches towards Thor, who entered the frame, hammer in hand, just in time to be caught by a shockingly fast kick to the leg—if the arrows and the burns from Stark’s weapons slowed the Abomination down, and it looks like they did, Coulson shudders to think how fast he was before. Thor drops to his knees and takes a long moment to regain his feet.

In the interim, another figure, nearly as large as the Abomination, arrives, clearly bellowing his head off as well, and the two grapple, trading brutal blows that don’t seem to much phase either of them.

Smaller figures watch warily from a distance, before darting close enough to be recognized as Rogers and Romanoff. Rogers checks on Thor while Romanoff disappears to one side of the screen, and Phil assumes she’s making sure that Stark is OK in his suit. She reappears, and they stand, poised to intervene in the vicious struggle between the two behemoths, but find no openings.

The Abomination grabs Hulk’s hair and wrenches backwards, and Hulk’s jaws open in scream that Phil can practically hear, in spite of the lack of audio. Hulk’s blows seem to grow stronger, and in a moment the Abomination lies against the pavement, Hulk’s fist tight around his head and ready to bash it in.

Suddenly the Hulk stops dead, and his eyes go wild and childlike. He flinches away, releasing the Abomination, and that’s all the thing needs to be up again and landing a series of brutal blows that knock the Hulk down and leave him momentarily stunned.

The Abomination turns and lunges for Rogers, who manages to deflect the blow and land one of his own that makes the Abomination flinch back before striking at Rogers harder than before. With Rogers holding the thing’s attention, Romanoff circles around him and lands her widow’s sting in both achilles tendons. He roars with rage and lashes out backwards, sending her tumbling to the ground. Rogers makes a move toward her, but the Abomination catches him with a hard backhand and he goes down, limp, and shows no sign of getting up.

Mjölnir strikes the Abomination on one shoulder, making him stagger back, but an instant later his hand clutches Thor’s throat and throws him down.

Hulk beats on the ground and screams, his eyes vacant of anything but terrible rage. He takes the Abomination down hard, slamming his head to the pavement again and again, not stopping until thick blood and shards of bone cover the ground.

The others keep their distance, watching carefully as Hulk roars out his rage. When the smashing slows, Rogers rises and takes a careful step towards him, keeping his every gesture deliberate and mild.

Hulk stops altogether and stares down at what remains of the Abomination. He mutters something—according to Rogers’ report it’s just the word “stop” over and over again. An expression that looks for all the world like shame covers his face.

And then the rage returns, worse than before, worse than anything, and Hulk beats his fists into the concrete, tearing up slabs of pavement and hurling them without regard for the team or anything else. Rogers, Romanoff, and Thor keep their distance as Hulk’s rampage continues.

“I didn’t come to for three days,” a soft voice behind him notes.

Phil jumps. For a man who spends a good chunk of his time as an uncontrollable bundle of rage, Banner moves quietly. “I know,” Phil tells him.

“They won’t end up like me.”

Phil doesn’t turn. “I thought you didn’t know how they’ll end up.”

Banner walks around the couch and sits in a chair opposite him. “I don’t, exactly, but they’re all— they’re very strong. They don’t need” he gestures at the tablet, where the Hulk continues to fling around chunks of concrete, “that. The way I did.”

“Is it about what they need?”

Banner shrugs. “You’re right. I don’t know. But I don’t think they’re going to be like that.”

“They do.”

Banner nods. “I know.”

“Well, if you can do any convincing—they could use it.”

“Will they listen?”

Phil shuts the video off. “Probably not.”

Banner rubs one thumb against the palm of his other hand, watching the play of skin over his knuckles. “What happens to them, while there’s a risk of transformation? You didn’t say, earlier.”

“No,” Phil agrees. “I didn’t.” He regards Banner for a long moment, and finally lets out a breath, allowing his exhaustion to seep into his voice. “I really don’t know,” he admits.

~

The capsule glitters a little in the dim light of her room, but it feels like nothing in her hand. Natasha remembers how it felt like nothing when she wore it too, tucked away in one tooth. With her tongue, she feels for the place where it used to sit, its absence still more unsettling to her than its presence had been.

The knock on the door comes more or less when she expects it, and she invites Clint in without changing her position.

He stiffens when he sees her, but tries not to show it. “I thought you got rid of that.”

“Did you?” She did tell him that she disposed of the little pill, but she never expected him to believe her.

“No,” he admits.

He moves to sit beside her, close but not too close. He knows better than to corner her. “Natasha, you can’t—“

“Why not?” she asks softly.

“Well, for starters, there’s all that shit you gave me after Loki. What was it you said? If I so much as thought about it, you’d know and come kick my ass?”

She smiles a little, for a moment, but it fades. “That was _after_ Loki. This is before… something. There’s a difference.”

He looks like he’s been sucker punched, and she almost wants to take it back. She tries the next best thing. “It’s going to be OK for you.”

He barks out a harsh laugh. “Oh, right, you’re a threat to the world that must be stopped via cyanide, while I’m made of kittens and puppy dogs over here.”

“You know what I am, Clint.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Why do you think I wanted you on our side?”

She laughs a little and looks back down at the capsule. “Banner— You know that Banner tried, once?”

He nods. “Yeah, I heard.”

“It isn’t that I want— I don’t want to die,” she tells him, and she’s surprised to realize how true it is, “but—” She could end up like Banner. This could be her last chance before every option is gone, and she’s left with no choice but to live with herself, whatever she becomes. 

“Please don’t.” His voice comes out small and desperate, and she can’t deny him.

She lets out a long breath. “I won’t.” Her eyes meet his. “Really.”

He nods, and she isn’t sure he believes her. But he stands, puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes. “You better not. ‘Cause I’d be pissed as hell.”

“Yeah. You too. Goodnight, Clint.”

“G’night, Nat.” The door opens, and closes quietly behind him.

Natasha brings the capsule to her lips, reaches in to fix it snugly in its hiding place. 

She didn’t lie. She isn’t going to use it. She just needs to know it’s there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Bruce is stuck delivering all the exposition in this story.


	7. Prepare for the Worst (hope for something better)

The seven days that follow are not the longest week of Tony’s life. That distinction, along with the next eleven top spots, belongs to a cave in Afghanistan, and Tony hopes to Hell that however long he lives, that record will never be broken.

But this week surely gets an honorable mention, at least. 

By the end of it the chaos of seven very unlike people attempting to share space has more or less coalesced into a routine. 

Rogers can be counted upon to rise by first light and head straight to the Hulk room for rigorous calisthenics, and Thor always makes it to the kitchen not long after dawn to commune with the coffee maker. Clint cooks elaborate breakfasts that nobody but Thor and Rogers eat much of, and then everyone who isn't asleep or locked in the lab sits around the living room trying to come up with something useful to do.

Tony knows all of this only through secondhand information. His contribution to the schedule is that he can be counted on not to arise before nine, except on the mornings when he hasn't gone to bed at all.

Mid-morning sparring practice started on the fourth day, as did Tony’s tradition of bypassing it to head straight to the lab as soon as he’s ingested enough caffeine to function. Clint and Rogers made dinner on the fifth night and insisted that everyone, even Bruce, sit down to eat it, and since then the whole group gathered each night for dinner of some sort. They all try, even Tony tries, but the dinners tend to involve a lot of long, tense silences interspersed with forced cheer and only occasionally leavened by real humor.

The source of much of that last, Tony would be quick to point out, was his own addition to the schedule—movie nights, which were instituted after, over the fifth night’s dinner, Tony discovered that not only had Rogers and Thor never experienced the cinematic masterpiece that was Star Wars, but Natasha hadn’t either. The practice of spending half of dinner arguing over what movie to watch next started on the sixth day, and Tony hopes to hell it doesn’t stop soon. It’s about the only topic of conversation that doesn’t inevitably devolve into fear and loathing, and even that’s true only because they’re all careful to eschew any mention of monster movies and horror flicks.

The late hours of the evening are better, or they are for Tony anyway, because they typically involve dragging Clint and Natasha into the lounge for the kind of drinking sessions the situation calls for.

The worst, and Tony would wager a fair part of his fortune that he’s not alone in this assessment, are the afternoons, when everyone without anything better to do sits around the living room reading or playing chess or vaguely attempting some form of work on their tablets while the television plays something inane in the background.

It’s quiet, and as companionable as a group of people all dancing on the blade’s edge can be, which is saying so little that it’s probably not worth the breath it takes to try. Most of them show, though, most days, because much as they might all like to be alone, Tony’s pretty sure none of them think that’s a particularly good idea at the moment. 

Still, there's something thoroughly unnerving about that many fully grown adults sitting quietly in a living room, going about their own pursuits. It’s like something out of Austen. Tony half expects them to start reciting poetry or discussing one another’s matrimonial prospects.

But so far no one has.

Tony looks down at the specs on his tablet. The “Vita Ray” machine. Today he’s gone old school—this version of design uses the original levers and dials, the analog gauges, and a retro-futuristic shielding pod. All period-accurate, give or take a few parts that he doesn’t happen to have lying around. He snorts, and wonders what Cap would think if he actually built the thing.

It doesn’t matter. He isn’t going to, just like he didn’t build any of the other six designs he’s put together over the course of the week. He can’t really say why he’s doing it—the machine isn’t even complex enough to make the design process interesting. Hell, if he were really going to make the thing he wouldn’t bother with specs—he’d just bang it together from whatever he could find in the lab. Soup to nuts it would take six or seven hours, tops. And then—

Yeah, that’s the problem. And then.

When his phone rings he’s glad of the distraction. He wipes the design file from the tablet, glances at his phone’s screen, and grins. About fucking time. “Rhodey, where the hell have you been? Agent's people should have relieved you days ago.”

“Where have _I_ been? What the fuck did you get yourself into?” There’s a warmth to Rhodey’s voice that’s someplace between affection and real annoyance.

"Hey, I was doing my civic duty, helping S.H.I.E.L.D. defend the homeland—apple pie and General Motors and so on. Figured you'd be proud," he adds, loading his voice with poorly feigned hurt.

Rhodey lets out an exasperated sigh. "What the hell happened? I got three different stories from my three best contacts at S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Probably better to have this talk over dinner. With copious amounts of gin."

"Your place or mine?"

"Gonna have to be mine. I'm under what you'd call house arrest.”

"House arrest?" Rhodey keeps his tone light, but Tony can hear the strain. "For you, that doesn't narrow it down much. Which house?"

"The Tower, eighty-ninth floor."

"Not the penthouse?"

"Nope. Use the landing pad and grab the elevator from the top—JARVIS’ll let you in."

Rhodey doesn't ask why, and Tony appreciates it. "OK. I'll be there at seven."

"I'll have dinner waiting, honey bear. Don’t be late."

Rhodey shows up just after seven, and Tony greets him at the elevator with a fresh gin and tonic and a grin. “Drink up, you’re going to need it.”

Rhodey takes the drink and clinks it against the half-empty one in Tony’s hand. “Is the world about to end?”

“Probably not, but the jury’s still out. Come on and meet the gang. We got takeout.”

He leads Rhodey to the dining room, where Natasha, Clint, Coulson, and Thor are already dishing themselves out various curries and breads. He absently makes introductions as he squeezes in to snag a plateful of his favorites before situating himself at the table to eat.

Rhodey follows his lead, and takes a single bite before putting down his fork. “OK, now we’re officially having dinner. And,” he holds up his drink, “I’m well supplied with gin, and so are you. Spill. What the hell happened?”

“There may have been an incident in Detroit with this fake medic chick. Got shot up with some drugs. Not the fun kind.”

Rhodey just regards him sternly, waiting for the rest of the explanation.

“Super soldier serum,” Tony says quickly, the words nearly obscured by the gin and tonic at his lips.

“The—” Rhodey attempts. “The super soldier serum. Like... Captain America.”

“Bingo. I’m gonna be Captain America.” He points at Romanoff and Barton with one thumb. “Them too.”

“That’s... gonna be interesting.”

“Nobody’s going to be Captain America,” Romanoff corrects. “Except him,” she amends in a lighter tone as Rogers and Bruce arrive, deep in conversation.

“Goddamn,” Rhodey whispers under his breath, and Tony laughs.

“Forgot about your little fanboy thing.” He gives Coulson a friendly tap on the shoulder. “You and he should bond. This guy,” he indicates Coulson, “designed Cap’s new suit.”

“I had some design input,” Coulson corrects.

Rhodey looks legitimately impressed by that for a moment before his eyes turn serious again. “Really, though, you going to be OK?”

“Hard to say.” Tony keeps his tone light, but he’s pretty sure Rhodey’s heard enough about the serum that he already knows what Tony doesn’t feel like saying.

“Huh.” Rhodey downs the last of his drink, and Tony stretches back to grab the bottle of gin off the sidebar and pass it over. Rhodey takes it, but rises and returns it to the bar, where he makes himself another gin and tonic, complete with ice and lime. Tony holds out his own empty glass in a wordless demand, and Rhodey takes it and fixes him one as well.

He places the fresh drink on the table in front of Tony and sits. “I hear the robots in Detroit got through your suit in one punch,” he notes.

Tony suppresses an actual growl at the reminder. “It was more of a jab, but, yeah.”

“Shouldn’t that not have happened? Just to be clear, I’m not asking because I give a shit about you,” Rhodey told him with a grin that looks only slightly forced. “If there’s something wrong with your suits it’s my ass on the line too.”

“It was a one in a million hit.”

“And that ‘bot got it on the first try.”

“Rub it in a little more, will you? Have I mentioned that I’m still waiting on my horrific transformation into who knows what? You should want to be nicer to me.”

“I am being nice to you. I did a little asking around, and not for nothing, but word is that Ross has been getting tight with some techheads who he’s got trying to reverse engineer your suit. Supposedly he’s getting them all the intel on you he can get his hands on.”

“You think Ross was involved in this?” Bruce’s voice cuts into their conversation, his tone harsh enough that Tony’s gaze flicks to his eyes to confirm that they remain the usual brown.

“The guy does have it out for Tony.”

“Because of that bar?” Bruce asks.

“Well, that and the part where Tony stopped making the hulkbuster stuff when he went all Iron Man. Guy was pissed as hell.”

Tony coughs. “Rhodey, I think I neglected to introduce you to Dr. Bruce Banner.” Rhodey’s mouth opens, and then shuts again with an audible click. “Bruce, this is Lt. Colonel James Rhodes, who likes to tell people shit that I probably should have told them myself.” It’s not an apology—“sorry I designed weapons to kill you” isn’t a sentiment he can even begin to articulate—but it’s as close as he can make it.

Bruce reaches across the table, and Rhodey grasps the offered hand and shakes it.

“Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Bruce shrugs. “His weapons have his name written on them in big letters. It’s not like I didn’t know.” Bruce’s tight smile looks like it hurts a little, and Tony has to avert his eyes. “Anyway, it’s not important now. Know anything about the techs Ross is working with?”

Rhodey nods. “Contractor’s GlobeTech. It’s a small company based in London. That’s all I’ve got so far.”

Coulson notes that down. “I’ll have my people look into it, thanks.”

Dinner winds down and he and Rhodey adjourn to the lounge, Barton and Romanoff following along. He finds a particularly good bottle of bourbon and pours doubles all around.

Rhodey takes a good long drink and regards Natasha. “You look familiar. Weren’t you Tony’s secretary or something?”

“Or something. I kept tabs.”

“Word to the wise,” Tony interjects, “do not get into a drinking match with her. It doesn’t end well.”

“How about pool?” Natasha suggests, her eyes still on Rhodey.

“That probably isn’t going to end that well either,” Tony offers, but Rhodey ignores him and accepts.

Which is how, against his better judgment, Tony ends up playing darts with Clint.

“This is not for money, I want to be clear,” Tony warns.

“That's fine, I'll settle for going after your ego.”

"My ego can take a hell of a lot more than you."

They play for a while, and as predicted Clint beats Tony soundly and repeatedly, while the measures Tony suggests to make it a challenge for Clint grow more and more outlandish. After Clint wins a game with both hands literally tied behind his back, Tony throws his own hands up in disgust and leads him back to the bar for another round.

He looks over to the pool table, where Rhodey and Natasha's game has mostly dissolved into open flirting.

"Huh," Tony notes. He supposes, upon reflection, that he shouldn't be surprised. They're a couple of exceedingly attractive people with high security clearance and energy to burn. "So, you're really OK with that?"

Clint shrugs. "No reason not to be. Unless there's something about Rhodes that Nat ought to know."

"Nah, Rhodey's a stand-up guy. But, you two really aren't—"

"We really aren't."

Tony gives him a skeptical look, and Clint throws it right back. "Are _you_ OK with them? You and Rhodes seem pretty tight."

Clint means it as a joke, but Tony answers anyway. "You better believe I'd be hitting that if he weren't tragically straight. But, things being what they are…” He looks over again and sees Natasha nod toward the door. Rhodey grins, and they make a less-than-discrete exit.

Clint gives him a speculative look. “So... professional curiosity: _Are_ you gay?” Tony opens his mouth to ask how exactly that’s professional, but Clint answers before he can manage it. “Because, I’ve got tell you, if you are, you run a world class disinformation campaign.”

Tony laughs. “I’m not gay. I just don’t let chromosomes get in the way of having a good time.”

“So you’re bi.”

Tony sniffs. “If you want to boil it down to the most boring possible description, yes.”

“But it’s always the women who show up in the tabloids.”

Tony takes a drink. “Yeah,” he admits. He’s not proud of it, and it’s not exactly intentional. Not anymore, anyway. “Statistically, slimmer pickings in the Y-chromosome arena.” He shrugs. It’s not really any of Clint’s business anyway. He doesn’t have to justify himself. Doesn’t have to explain that there’s never been anybody he could ask to live through that particular media circus. Women are easier, and easy is more or less how Tony prefers things.

Clint nods, apparently content to take Tony's explanation at face value. They finish their drinks in silence, and Tony picks up the bottle in a silent offer to pour Clint another. Clint shakes his head. "Think I'm going to get some sleep."

Tony nods, and toys with the stopper on the bourbon bottle until the door closes behind Clint. As he pours himself another drink, he wonders if Clint actually sleeps. Maybe he should ask for pointers.

He just sits for a while, idly swirling amber liquid around in his glass. He hears the gentle slide of the door opening again and turns to find Bruce in the doorway.

"Mind if I join you?" he asks.

"Pull up a stool," Tony invites, as casually as he can. But he can't keep the muscles in his back from tensing, his whole body ready for a blow, and for a moment he doesn't even know why. Then his brain catches up with his instincts, and he remembers that Bruce knows about the weapons for Ross—that he knew already, or claims as much, anyway.

Bruce sits next to him and eyes the bourbon bottle. "You mind?" He asks, and Tony passes it over.

Bruce pours himself a drink and reaches over the bar to fish a couple of cubes out of the ice bucket. Then he leans back and lets his eyes close as he takes a sip, like he’s allowing himself a rare pleasure.

The expression suits him, and Tony doesn’t interrupt it.

After a long moment, Bruce puts the drink down. “I needed that.” He lets out a long breath. “Nothing is going anywhere.”

Tony nods. Nothing was going anywhere that morning either, or the day before. All their theories have gone nowhere, and the data they’ve got to work with is murky at best. All the potential solutions have run up against hard constraints, and they’ve figured out less than nothing on the effects of transition. Tony gave up this morning and took some time to tinker with suit designs, just to clear his head, but Bruce insisted on continuing. “Biology,” Tony mutters.

Bruce laughs. “Unless you want to upload your brain into your suit, it’s what we’ve got.” He pauses. “Please tell me you don’t want to do that.”

Tony shakes his head. “Nah. Haven’t quite cracked the consciousness problem yet.”

“That’s... kind of a relief.”

“Besides, bodies can be pretty fun.” Tony produces his most exaggerated leer, watching Bruce’s face for the telltale flush of embarrassment.

He doesn’t get it—Banner just smirks. “See? Biology: Not all bad.”

“That’s really more chemistry,” Tony corrects with a smirk of his own.

“Same thing,” Bruce answers. But a sly quirk to his lips suggests that he didn’t miss the joke.

They drink in silence for a time, until it stretches longer than Tony can bear. "So you knew," he says quietly.

Bruce looks at him, confusion obvious in his eyes.

"About the weapons... for Ross."

Bruce looks ashamed. It's indecent, and far worse than anger would have been—even Bruce's version of anger. Though the shame is admittedly easier on the furniture.

“You don’t have to—” Bruce manages.

"Yeah. I know. I’m not apologizing. ‘Cause that would be more than a little ridiculous. Not to mention pointless, and any number of other adjectives. I did what I did.”

“I wasn’t looking for an apology. It’s just as well.”

He frowns. “I don’t follow.”

Bruce takes a sip of his drink, and then meets Tony’s eyes. “There _should_ be some way of stopping the other guy.” He grimaces. “Ross isn’t the guy I’d want to have it, but it should exist. Sometimes I— he— fuck it, you know what I mean. Sometimes there’s no way to calm us down.”

Tony swallows and manages a nod.

That wasn’t why he designed the weapons for Ross. Hell, he didn’t know much about the Hulk when he did it—size and power and shape were about it. But he didn’t ask, and he didn’t go along with it because there might be a man in there who needed help stopping. He didn’t even do it because of the danger to civilians or some crap like that, though he’s sure that’s what was said in all the meetings. He did it because nobody thought it could be done, and those were always his favorite jobs.

But he doesn’t share any of that. People think he’s selfish, and God knows they’re right. But he’s actually not selfish enough to use this a moment for his own catharsis. Spilling his guilt would do Bruce not one iota of good, and keeping his trap shut just might.

Besides, he has bigger fish to fry. “Shoe may be on the other foot soon,” he notes quietly.

“I doubt it.” Bruce speaks with a quiet confidence that hurts somewhere in Tony’s chest.

He knows better. He absolutely knows better, but all of a sudden it’s a little hard to breathe and Tony’s only got one way to answer a tone like that. “The whole supportive routine—adorable, I’m sure, but you don’t actually know me.” 

Bruce stiffens as Tony pulls himself up onto the bar and swings over to land neatly on the other side. 

“Ask Fury, I can barely be trusted with the Iron Man suit.” One of his better bottles of scotch comes easily to hand, and he pours himself two or three fingers without really looking. “Pepper will tell you I can barely be trusted with a company. Can’t be, actually, which is why it’s a good thing I’m making her run it.” When he brings the glass to his lips, he tastes only the burn of the alcohol. “Ask my dad, I mean, you can’t, obviously, he’s dead, and good riddance, but he’s already made it abundantly fucking clear that I’m no damn Steve Rogers.”

Bruce doesn’t answer right away. Tony takes another drink, and he can feel Bruce’s eyes getting compassion all over him. It makes him itch, and he takes his glass to the other side of the room and pulls a set of darts off the dartboard one-handed.

“There’s a lot of room between Rogers and me,” Bruce notes quietly as Tony sinks three darts into the board in quick succession.

“You’re not as bad as you think you are, Banner. None of us are scared of being _you_.” He retrieves the darts, and considers. “Maybe Natasha. You still scare the shit out of her, you know.”

“Yeah, noticed that.” Bruce’s tone isn’t as light as Tony’s pretty sure he wanted it to be. He hops down off his bar stool and holds out a hand for the darts.

Tony hands them over, and Bruce toys with one of them. “There’s a lot of room between me and Blonsky, too.”

“You better believe it.”

“I do.” Bruce doesn’t add “most of the time,” but Tony has a feeling it’s what he means. 

They take a few more turns with the darts. Tony absently keeps score in his head, but he doesn’t mention it when he gets to zero, and neither does Bruce. Tony starts counting again from the top.

Bruce doesn’t try to talk again, doesn’t assure Tony of anything that Tony knows to be a lie. There’s something refreshing in the silence, and for a while Tony can appreciate it. It gives him time to build up to what he has to say, what he’s meant to say from the moment they started on this particular conversation. What he should have meant to say a week ago.

“If I, uh. If I need to be stopped.” Tony pauses to pull the darts out of the board and turns to walk back to the oche. He keeps his eyes on the board. “You’d be the one to do it.” He takes his turn quickly, without turning to look at Bruce. He wonders if Bruce takes the words for a prediction or a request. He’s not even sure himself which way he means it.

No. He knows.

He finally turns, and, as expected, finds Bruce’s eyes on him.

Bruce gives a short nod. “Yeah,” is all he says.

~

Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes makes for an excellent distraction.

He's amusing and nicely proportioned and the whole night he never asks for more than she can give. When she gets him into her bed he takes direction nicely, and gives it too. He hits the sweet spot between tentative and overbearing, with a cocky manner that never ignores what she needs, or what she has to offer, either.

All around it's a very good night—the best she's had since Kiev by far. For a brief but blissful stretch she enjoys the joining with his body enough to forget the dread lurking in her own.

He doesn’t ask to stay, and she doesn’t invite him to, but their parting kiss has no bitterness to it, and he leaves with a smile on his face.

She wakes up alone and almost regrets it. But only almost. Even if she can trust James—and she thinks she can, which is strange enough in itself—she can’t afford to drag anyone into her life right now. She doesn’t regret the fun they had, but that’s all was ever going to be, and it’s over now.

She dresses quickly, brushes her teeth and tongues over the capsule to make sure it’s still snug in its space, and heads to the kitchen. Thor leans against one wall, and Clint stands by the counter when she gets there. She pours a cup of coffee, and Clint offers her waffles with a smirk only slightly slyer than usual.

She takes the plate out of his hand and pours a generous measure of syrup before settling at the table. “Coulson not up yet?”

“He came for coffee, but returned to his rooms,” Thor notes. “He seemed weary.”

“Maybe Rhodes’ information panned out,” she suggests, and Clint nods.

“How is the Lieutenant Colonel?” Clint’s voice is muffled by a mouthful of waffle, but the arch tone of his question comes through anyway.

“He’s very good.” She allows herself a slow smile.

Clint laughs. “Glad to hear it.”

Thor looks between them and smiles broadly. “Rhodes is an attractive man.” He claps her on the shoulder in what she’s pretty sure is congratulations. It doesn’t sit particularly well under the circumstances, but she smiles and tries to take it in the spirit in which it was intended.

Rogers chooses that moment to arrive, and casts a slightly confused glance over the three of them before apparently deciding it’s none of his business and getting himself coffee and breakfast.

When they adjourn for the gym to spar she goes gladly.

Steve and Thor move to the far side of the enormous room, leaving Natasha to trade blows with Clint near the entrance.

The simple rhythms of hand to hand relax her—they feel almost as distracting, almost as good, as her exertions of the previous night. She never has to hold back when she spars with Clint and neither does he, and she’s pretty sure they’re both grateful for each friendly bout that takes them further from the last time they fought in earnest.

She’s just warmed up when she hears the door and looks up, expecting Coulson, but finds Banner there instead. She and Clint call an unspoken truce and turn warily. “Any news, Doc?” she asks in the steadiest voice she can muster.

He shakes his head. “I was… uh, actually looking to blow off a little steam—clear my head.”

She looks around. She knows what Stark claims about the room’s security, but she doesn’t feel all that reassured. Still, if the man thinks he needs it, she’s not eager to stand in his way. “Should we clear out?”

He gives a wry laugh. “Not that kind of steam. Figured I’d join in the, uh,” he gestures vaguely, “general sparring.”

She exchanges a quick glance with Clint, who reads her like she knew he would. He gives Banner an easy smile. “Sure, Doc. Glad to have you.”

She moves away, grateful that she doesn’t have to lay a hand on him. She knows his history—knows that he can take a hell of a lot more than a friendly match without coming close to losing control, but the thought of striking him makes her blood run cold anyway.

Clint tosses him the usual padding. Banner dons it and they square off. “Don’t worry, Doc, I’ll go easy.”

Banner’s lips quirk. “Appreciate it.”

Clint makes the first move, slow and obvious, and Banner blocks it. They trade a couple of blows, Clint clearly holding back for all he’s worth, and then, suddenly, Banner has him on the ground with one arm pulled back and Banner’s foot pressed against the back of Clint’s neck. Banner releases him just as suddenly and stands back, reaching down to offer Clint a hand up. “Maybe not that easy.”

Clint chuckles as he stands. “You’ve got some moves, Doc.”

“The other guy’s not an ideal first line of defense.”

They try again, and Clint’s calibrated better this time. He’s still holding back quite a bit, but not so much that he isn’t enjoying himself at least a little.

“So.” Clint snags one of Banner’s ankles with one foot, and Banner stumbles back but keeps his feet. “You pick this up before or after?”

Banner lands a punch to Clint’s shoulder and ducks under the return blow. “After.”

Clint catches Banner a pretty good kick to the gut, and Natasha sees Clint wince and glance to Banner’s face to gauge his reaction.

But Banner’s expression still suggests nothing more dangerous than wry amusement. He shifts to a ready position and works to catch his breath, watching Clint for his next move. “Before— this stuff didn’t seem like a particularly good idea for me to know.”

Clint launches a series of blows, and Banner retreats a little, intent on blocking them. “Why’s that?”

Banner tries to knock Clint off balance with a reasonably impressive kick to the side of one knee, but Clint grabs Banner’s foot and sends him sprawling backwards onto the floor. Banner chuckles a little through heavy breaths. “Getting my ass kicked—good disincentive for getting into stupid fights.”

Clint helps him up. “You do that a lot?”

“Not as much as I wanted to.” His breaths still come in short gasps. “Give me a minute?”

Clint nods and they both move to lean against the wall. 

Natasha passes Banner a bottle of water. “You don’t seem like the brawling type.”

“It wasn’t really for fun. The anger bit—not a result of the serum.”

Looking at him, his messy curls damp with sweat, his body slumped against the wall as he gulps down water from the little plastic bottle, Natasha can’t see any of the fury that he claims to always carry with him. She knows his history, knows he’s had reason for anger since the day he was born. She knows he lashed out, repeatedly, throughout his adolescence, until maturity brought him a remarkable measure of self control. But no amount of self discipline could hide the kind of rage that animates the Hulk, and nothing he says will convince her otherwise.

He gives her a look like he knows what she’s thinking. “You’re not wrong to be scared. But you’re not going to end up like me. Either of you.”

She folds her arms. “Little tired of that song, Doc.”

He offers a weak smile. “I can imagine. Still true, though.”

She regards him through narrowed eyes, and suddenly her good sense deserts her. “Ready to go again?” she offers.

He nods, and she catches Clint’s furrowed brow as she and Banner move a little ways from the wall to stand facing one another.

She waits for Banner to make a move, and does her best to keep her reflexes under control at first, taking a couple of blows and giving him a few to deflect. Then she allows him to overreach and grabs his arm, twisting it across and back to pin him in front of her.

“You have a bodycount, before the Hulk?” She asks, her voice low and calm but just inches from his ear.

He struggles a little, still trying to keep to the spirit of sparring, but she doesn’t go easy on him, and he can’t move. His breathing shifts, and for an instant she’s afraid she’s gone too far. But then he answers. “Not for lack of wanting to, but—no.”

“Thought so.” She releases him, and they move to face each other again, each watching for the other’s next move. “Eighty-seven,” she notes, her eyes meeting his.

She lunges for him then, and he dodges, steps back, tries to counter but loses balance and falls to one knee. She stands over him, just out of his reach. “Those are just the ones I know about. And I never made a point of knowing more than I had to.”

He gets to his feet, faster than she anticipates, and tries an attack that takes some effort to counter. “Those were assignments, right? Not you—the Red Room. You did what you had to.” He tries again and she counters that too, but he’s better than she thought he’d be. “With S.H.I.E.L.D. too, yeah, but for—“ he ducks under her kick and spins to face her again, “—good reasons.”

She throws a couple of punches, nothing that she really intends to land. She’s just marking time. “Why’s not really the point—I did it.” He makes a grab for her arm, and as she twists out of his grip she gives a kick to his shin that makes him suck in a sharp breath. She grabs his wrist and twists until he’s pinned against her again. “And I liked it. The right mark—I still do.” She takes a breath, but doesn’t let him go. “The Red Room made me, your father made you. We are what our circumstances make us.” She does release him then, and he falls back. “And circumstances made both of us monsters.” 

She allows her focus to split, and notes that Clint’s body language is as tense as she’s seen it, and Steve and Thor have called a truce in their own match to watch hers.

For an instant her sense returns, and she tastes adrenaline in the back of her throat. Antagonizing Banner is insane, and she knows so very much better.

But he just watches her, face strangely impassive. He doesn’t make a move. “If that’s true, what are you doing here?”

“It was this or an arrow through the chest.”

“Bullshit.” He glances to Clint, and she follows his gaze to see that the tension in Clint’s frame hasn’t dissipated, but it’s more hurt now than fear.

She drops her gaze for an instant. “Yeah. But what I do now doesn’t change anything. I can wipe my ledger clean, but I’ll always be what they made me. So it’d be nice if everybody stopped trying to sell me on bullshit lines about everything being OK. It isn’t, and if there’s anybody here who doesn’t know it, they’re not paying attention.”

Banner watches her for a long moment, and finally shrugs, as if he knows there’s nothing to be gained in arguing the point. “I should get back to the lab. This was—“ he doesn’t finish, but Natasha’s pretty sure he wasn’t going to say “fun.” He takes a couple of steps towards the door, and turns to look back at both of them. “Whatever the hell happens, you’ve got one thing I didn’t—the whole team has both your backs.”

Her eyes narrow. She’s heard that before. She glances to Clint, whose guarded expression matches her own. “Sure, Doc. Whatever you say.”

His flinch is so small that she almost misses it. He turns, shoulders just a little more slumped than usual, and goes.

Thor and Steve are still watching her warily, and Natasha gives them a nod. They return it and, after a moment’s hesitation, go back to their fun. 

She turns to Clint. “Sorry.”

He shrugs. “Gotta get some excitement in my life somehow. Wouldn’t have picked you for poking Banner for the adrenaline rush, but hey, why the hell not?” He’s pissed, and she deserves that. 

“Go again?” she offers.

He takes it for the gesture it is, and they return to their match. 

“He was right about one thing,” Clint manages between blows.

“That being?”

“Can’t speak for anybody else, but I’ve sure as hell got your back. I don’t give a shit how bad things get—whatever you need, I’m there.”

Coming from him it’s a sacred oath. She didn’t ask for it. She owes him too much already, and anyway, it isn’t really the promise she needs. But it is the promise _he_ needs, and it’s one she can make.

She doesn’t say so immediately. He has to know that she takes it seriously, that she knows what it means to him. He ought to know by now that it doesn’t need saying, but it’s enough to know he’ll believe her when she tells him “same here.”

~

Late afternoon sun streams through the main room’s long windows, touching the simple furniture with warm light, and casting long shadows on the chess board.

Thor considers the pieces casting those shadows. His queen has an obvious opening, and he would like to take it. But something in Natasha’s careful nonchalance suggests that the move is exactly what she hopes for, and he cannot see why. He knows by now the pieces and their strategic advantages, but the game isn’t yet so familiar that he can see the patterns as he knows she can. But if he cannot read the board, he can perhaps at least read her. He moves his knight.

He thinks she frowns a little, but he can’t say for certain. The game continues for a time, and while she does best him in the end, she does it with a small smile that tells him she considers the game well played.

He looks around the room. Of their companions, only Stark remains, and he sits some distance away, engaged in design work on a holographic screen. The Captain and Clint have adjourned to the kitchen to prepare dinner, and Coulson hasn’t been seen since breakfast.

“Another game?” Natasha suggests, and Thor nods his agreement.

She plays recklessly this time, losing pieces left and right, but somehow, when the game ends, his side of the board remains mostly full, but his king is lost.

“You are a skilled player.”

“I’m Russian. We didn’t invent the game, but we might as well have.”

“Shall we play again?”

She hesitates, but finally nods, and they return the pieces to their starting points.

“You must miss Dr. Foster. And Asgard.”

He nods. “I do.” He does, very much. He knows that his sacrifice pales in comparison to the fears and concerns of his team, but the days here are long, and he itches to be able to attend to his lady in New Mexico, or to return to his duties in Asgard. His role is clearer, easier in either place. But the need for him is greater here, and he knows it.

“I appreciate it,” she tells him. She moves a pawn, and he moves one of his own in answer. Four moves later, she speaks again. “On the helicarrier, when Banner....” She doesn’t finish—just looks up at him to see that he understands.

“When I could not stop him?” he asks, hoping that it comes across as resigned humor, and not with the full weight of the shame he feels.

“You did more than anyone else could have.” She pauses, her bishop held between her fingers. “You may need to do it again.”

He nods gravely. “I know.”

She puts her bishop down where it was and meets his eyes. “If it’s me?” She takes a breath. “I need your word that you’ll do what you have to. No hesitation.”

He examines her face—she’s paler than usual, but her eyes shine, clear and fierce. She knows what she’s asking, and so does he.

He cannot help but wonder how things might have been different had his brother made so noble a request before his descent into madness. If he would have been able to make that promise, or to carry it out. He fears he could not have done it, even at Loki’s behest.

Perhaps requests such as this are commonplace here. With lives so short, perhaps humans take more lightly the prospect of taking the life of a friend and ally. But he cannot. “I have no wish to play the executioner.” It’s almost a plea.

“And I have no wish to be executed,” she assures him tartly. “If there’s a better option, by all means take it." She holds his gaze, and Thor wishes he could look away. "But if you need to take me out, you do it.” She looks up again, seeking confirmation.

Thor bows his head, ashamed at the dread building in his heart. If this human has the courage to ask, how can he lack the valor to agree? “You have my pledge. If it is within my power, I will do whatever must be done.” He is a man of honor. If the time comes, he will not break his word. But he fervently hopes that fate will never call upon him to keep it.

She nods in satisfaction, picks up her bishop again, and plays it.

By the time she has bested him again—in a nearer contest this time—the aromas of dinner waft from the kitchen. He stands and stretches, and she moves to help Clint and Rogers as he begins to put away the board.

When Thor stands to move toward the door, he sees Agent Coulson’s eyes on him. He realizes that he cannot say when the man entered the room, but by his sorrowful gaze, he heard some of what was said.

Thor’s face feels cold as stone as he meets Coulson’s gaze.

Coulson gives a little nod. His expression speaks of grim approval, and Thor feels somehow as if a solemn ritual transpired in that brief instant.

The humans of Midgard are a strange and troublesome people, but there is something to them that leaves Thor in awe.

~

Most people know about Steve’s superior strength. His speed, his agility. Some are aware that the serum enhanced his tactical reasoning, his reflexes, his heart, his lungs. But somehow, most everyone seems to overlook his enhanced hearing. They probably know about it, he supposes. It just doesn’t tend to occur to them while they’re having excruciatingly private conversations well out of what should have been Steve’s earshot.

Generally Steve makes a point of ignoring what he knows, but he has to admit that it's often an advantage. He tries to offer a sympathetic ear to the people on his team. He’s been told that he’s easy to talk to. But most of them don’t seem to think so. At least not right now, and under the circumstances he can’t blame them.

So he listens, and doesn’t let on, but allows himself to feel reassured. Stark and Romanoff and Clint may be afraid for themselves, but they’re each of them more afraid for the harm they could cause. And it’s that fact that tells Steve that none of them has to worry at all.

Not that it stops them. Or him either, truth be told. He feels in his bones that they’re going to do OK, but stray doubts still buzz around his mind, and, try as he might, he can’t banish them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, I know a lot of people really don’t like unexpected minor/background pairings. So, um, sorry. Natasha really needed to have some fun.


	8. Something’s Gotta Give (something always does)

Steve raises his beer to Banner and Stark when they arrive at the dinner table, and they both attempt smiles in response. Stark’s is more convincing than Banner’s, which Steve has a feeling has something to do with the mostly-empty glass in Stark’s hand.

As they sit, Clint leans over to snag a basket of rolls from the other side of the table, and then glances guiltily at Steve, as if he’s expecting to be chided for his poor manners. Steve just takes a roll from the basket while it’s briefly within range and breaks it apart on his plate. Apparently these days everyone thinks that the forties were a bastion of impeccable, or at least well enforced, etiquette. And maybe they were, for some people. But while Steve was certainly told to mind his manners as a child, Army mess tents made short work of any desire he might have had to be priggish about them.

Natasha takes the basket from Clint’s hands, and maybe he’s imagining it, but Steve thinks she looks a little more relaxed than she has these last few dinners. She passes the basket over to Thor, who receives it with murmured thanks, his eyes barely leaving his plate.

Coulson regards them all, his face as blandly unreadable as ever. When the gentle chaos of serving themselves has subsided, his plate remains empty. He clears his throat. It’s a soft noise, but it commands the attention of the room nonetheless. "We have a name on the infiltrator. And some preliminary intel."

Stark breaks into the silence that follows, a sour note to his voice. “You were waiting for dinner for the dramatic reveal?”

“Waiting to get enough information for it to be worth sharing,” Coulson corrects. “Which we did, just now.” He looks around the table and ducks his head a little when his gaze reached Romanoff and Clint. “I thought it would be best to avoid another false alarm.”

Steve has to give him that one. The last thing they need is another go-round on a theory that turns out to be nothing but dust and ashes. Clint doesn’t look particularly mollified, but Romanoff gives a grim nod.

“Our people can confirm that the woman is Dr. Kalina Baker, a GlobeTech employee.” Coulson glances over to Stark. “Give Rhodes our thanks.” Stark nods at that, and Coulson continues. “JARVIS, please display the file I transferred." A photograph of a young blond woman appears on three viewscreens at once, accompanied by a list of biographical information. "British citizen, born 1985, Manchester, England. Mother: Dr. Jacqueline Baker, professor of computer science at Cambridge, deceased October 2011. Father unknown. Enrolled at Cambridge University 2001, managed to earn herself an engineering doctorate by 2007. Then took the job with GlobeTech, where it looks like she’s been on the team working with Ross’s people for the last couple of years, specializing in integrated systems. Genius level IQ, but low profile, other than a bit of a splash in the early aughts with personal aircraft prototypes.”

"Wait... it’s that jet-pack girl?” Stark blinks. “I tried to _hire_ her.”

“With your usual delicacy?” Romanoff glowers.

Stark bristles. “No way is this my fault. I had a guy offer her a job, she said no. It was nothing. It was nothing and it was a _decade_ ago.”

“Ordinarily I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that Stark managed to piss someone off just that much,” Coulson notes, “but if that were her motive we think she’d have gone with something a little simpler.”

Clint looks down at his plate. “So what was it?” When Coulson doesn't immediately reply, Clint raises his head, his eyes sharp.

Coulson purses his lips and glances around the table. But when he continues, Steve can’t see the reason for his hesitation.

“She’s been working from GlobeTech’s Miami office for about a year and a half. We have reason to believe she’s involved with a member of Ross’s lab staff, guy by the name of Alex Galkin, 29, biochem PhD. Decent at what he does, but not even close to her league. We haven’t yet determined if they’re friends or something more. We suspect the latter, though her name wasn’t included in any of Galkin’s disclosures. We’re ready to pick him up as soon as we’re willing to risk tipping her off.”

“Ross is going to love that,” Romanoff mutters.

“Ross isn’t going to know about it until Thursday at the earliest. Then it’s Fury’s problem.”

“I wouldn’t mind listening in on that conversation,” Stark smirks.

Clint ignores him, his eyes still fixed on Coulson. “Get to the punchline. What else?”

Coulson takes a breath. “Three months ago she initiated remote proceedings in the United Kingdom for a name change. It hasn’t gone through yet, but the surname she’s claiming is Blonsky.”

The silence that follows is stark enough to remind Steve just how well the place is soundproofed. Not a whisper from the millions of people in the city outside, even to his ears. And less from the seven around the table.

Romanoff is the first to speak. “Three months ago. Right after— Right after Port-au-Prince.”

“Yeah,” Coulson confirms.

“So we think she’s—”

“Emil Blonksy’s daughter, yes. That’s our best guess.” Coulson pokes at his tablet for a long moment, while that sinks in.

“So that’s everything we have?” Stark asks.

“Isn’t it enough?” Banner’s voice is weary.

“Uh, no?” Stark answers. “Where is she? What’s her plan? Is this some kind of revenge psychodrama, or does she have something to gain from screwing us over?”

“We’re still working on that. It looks like they’re about to pick up Galkin. Hopefully he knows something.”

“So that’s it?”

Coulson nods. “For the moment, yes. I’ll keep you posted.”

Stark stands and starts mumbling instructions. “JARVIS, track down every server Kalina Baker has ever so much as looked at. Alert me if there's anything the standard hacks can't get through. And in the meantime I need every article, every patent, every schematic, every fucking doodle attached to the names Kalina Baker or Kalina Blonsky.”

“Yes Sir,” JARVIS confirms.

Unasked, Banner follows Stark out to one of the holographic projectors in the living room.

Romanoff moves to stand behind Coulson, and Clint does the same thing, both examining Coulson's tablet over his shoulder and providing steady commentary.

Thor glances down at his plate, and Steve’s stomach rumbles in sympathy. It seems somehow indecent to be eating now, but he is hungry, and hates to let the food go to waste. He shifts to a seat closer to Thor and says at much, and the two of them quickly polish off their meals and then proceed to clear the table and tidy the kitchen.

They finish cleaning and return to the living room. Clint and Romanoff still huddle over the tablet, while Coulson stands to one side, obviously listening to someone on his com.

"Got him.” The quiet confirmation draws the attention of the whole of the room. Coulson holds up a finger for patience, and finally speaks again. “Galkin’s in custody—they’ll be questioning him shortly.”

All eyes remain on Coulson for a long moment, even though they all know results will take time.

Not that much time, though. Only ten minutes later Coulson’s lips quirk. He listens for another moment before looking up at the room. “Chivalry is apparently dead. Hill says the guy cracked about thirty seconds after he laid eyes on Fury. We should have something in a few minutes.”

It takes longer than that, but by the time the information dries up they know a lot more, none of it good. Galkin was dating Baker. or thought he was, anyway. He didn’t know much about her except that she worked for GlobeTech, and that she was desperately interested in Emil Blonsky and the super soldier serum project. Shortly after they began dating, he started sneaking her into the holding cell where Blonsky was kept, and he was the one who got her access to the serum. Galkin apparently swears up and down that he has no idea how Blonsky escaped his cell, that he hasn’t seen Baker in weeks, that he honestly thought she just wanted to study the serum for some project of her own.

“Jury’s still out on whether he’s as dumb as he claims,” Coulson concludes, “but it seems plausible.”

No more information is forthcoming—the interrogation over, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s shifted to trying to determine Kalina Baker’s movements since the incident, and her current whereabouts.

Still, in spite of the standstill and the hour, no one so much as suggests sleep.

Steve joins Stark and Banner for a while, examining Baker’s work. Stark curses periodically, and Steve’s pretty sure that means that she’s better than any of them want to hear.

Romanoff and Clint pour over the tablet, sifting through the information S.H.I.E.L.D. gathered, hoping to catch anything the other agents missed.

Dawn is fast approaching when everyone with a screen in front of them—which by that time is everyone—receives one message all at once.

“The hell?” Clint demands.

The message fills the screen, bright red and containing nothing but the word “Attention.” Stark lets out a string of curses. “JARVIS, source and mechanism, right the fuck now.”

“It appears that the ISP has been compromised—tracking source.”

Stark types frantically for a moment and manages to bring up another window. He curses. “This didn’t just go to us. This went to— _Jesus_. She— somehow she forced it through to every device connected to our ISP. How do you even— goddamn.” Banner leans over his shoulder, and the two of them stare grimly at strings of gibberish as they scroll across the window.

Coulson pauses for a moment, his hand to his ear. “And not just here. This was simultaneously distributed in most of the major cities in the U.S.”

Stark gives a low whistle. “No wonder I wanted to hire her,” he mutters.

And then the red screen disappears, replaced by a moving picture. Baker’s face is tightly framed in front of an off white wall that gives no hint of her location. When she speaks, her accent reminds him a little of Peggy, but it’s harder, nastier, and weaker, too. She's obviously memorized what she means to say, and it makes her sound younger than she is.

"The so-called heroes of New York and Port-au-Prince are no better than those they fought. The world will soon see that among their numbers are worse monsters than Emil Blonsky, the decorated soldier who gave his life twice—once when he accepted a radical transformation in service to this nation, and again, in Port-au-Prince, when the supposed heroes of New York killed him for it.” Her voice breaks a little on that, and Steve has to steel himself against pity. “Plutocrat Tony Stark, the terrorist known as Hawkeye, and the Russian double-agent called the Black Widow have all received the same serum that Captain Blonsky was given. When it is activated, everyone will finally see them for the monsters they already are."

The video shuts off, and as far as Steve can tell his tablet goes back to normal. He looks around the room and finds that everybody else is doing the same.

“Well, that was some pathetic propaganda. ’Plutocrat’? ‘Plutocrat’s the worst thing she can say about me?” Stark blows out a dismissive breath. “I got called worse by the kids at boarding school.”

“We can’t all be terrorists,” Clint tells him with a painfully forced grin.

“Yeah, but seriously? I used to get called 'the merchant of death' on _CNN_. This chick needs to up her game. Who even says ‘plutocrat’ anymore?”

Stark’s heart obviously isn’t in the banter, but Steve’s glad for anything to fill the silence. He’d like to make some joke himself, but he’s pretty sure that under the circumstances a self deprecating quip from Captain America would go over like a lead balloon.

Romanoff hasn’t said a word since the video ended. The set of her lips suggests nausea, and her eyes remain on her tablet, though the video is long gone from its screen.

Steve moves to stand behind her and places one hand on her shoulder in what he hopes is a comforting gesture.

“I catch anybody even thinking that this broad is anything but out of her mind, you’re answering to me. Everything we have done as a team we did to protect innocent people. We’re all going to come out the other side of this stronger than ever, and we’re going to keep doing what Fury brought us together to do. Because _that _is who we are. All of us.”__

__He really does believe it. But somehow every word rings hollow anyway._ _

__~_ _

__Cap's pretty little speech leaves silence in its wake, and not the companionable kind. Clint's eyes flick over the assembled group._ _

__He doesn’t think Cap is bullshitting them, not intentionally, anyway, but the painful realization that none of they are buying it sits plainly on Steve’s face._ _

__Tony turns away from the others almost immediately, reviewing whatever JARVIS has come up with on the transmission. His hands shake just a little as he pokes at the display, and in just about any other room in the world the tell would be too small for anyone to see. But in this room Clint suspects that it hasn't escaped anyone's notice. Banner in particular watches Tony with concern, his lips pursed and his hand idly ruffling through his hair as he follows Tony’s research process._ _

__Thor stands, still and tense. He looks small somehow, as if he is trying by sheer force of will to absent himself from the situation. None of this is his fight, and Clint appreciates that he's there anyway, when he sure as hell doesn’t have to be. What he makes of all this Clint doesn't know. By his manner, Clint wouldn’t think Thor very familiar with this sort of conflict—waged with counterfeit uniforms and accusing broadcasts and interminable waiting. But, then, Clint knows better than most that trickery is anything but alien to Thor’s people._ _

__Coulson remains only half present, the rest of his attention on whoever’s on the other end of his com—Hill probably, or Sitwell. But worry lines his face. He’s as uneasy as the rest of them about the Baker woman’s plans, and her accusations too._ _

__But the one really ripping Clint's heart in two just now is Natasha. He’d like to take her in his arms, but he knows she wouldn’t thank him for it. Though she’d rarely admit it, Natasha isn’t actually averse to the comfort of a human touch, but it’s got to be on her terms, and he respects that. Most days he feels the same. Steve’s hand rests on her shoulder, and she hasn’t shaken it off, though Clint wonders if it’s helping or hurting her struggle to keep herself calm._ _

__Clint moves to stand by her side, neither behind nor in front of her, but close enough to remind her that he’s got her back, and that he expects her to have his. She takes a breath and gives him a sidelong glance that reassures him more than a thousand smiles would have._ _

__Abruptly, Tony clears his display and turns back to the rest of them. “So, gameplan. What do we do?”_ _

__“Hopefully some of that will give us something to track her down." Coulson manages to inject some optimism into the reply. "I trust you’ll assist.”_ _

__Tony shakes his head. “She’s way too good. Hiding the origins of an attack like that is nothing compared to the hack itself.”_ _

__Coulson looks like he expected that. “We’ve still got a lot of new information to work with. We’ll figure out where she is, and send a team to take her in.”_ _

__“And in the meantime we twiddle our thumbs.”_ _

__“Pretty much, yes,” Coulson agrees._ _

__“Yeah, no. I’m done with that. I’m not going to spend the rest of this month, let alone the rest my life cowering in fear of some supervillain wannabe. We take the fight to her.”_ _

__Clint raises an eyebrow. “It’d help to know where she is.”_ _

__“Yeah, OK, questionable phrasing—but we can make her come to us. She wants to find us and do the presto-chango thing, so let’s give her a shot. I let slip that I’ll be somewhere, we put a team in place, she comes after me, we nab her and then _she_ gets to live under S.H.I.E.L.D. lockdown instead of us.”_ _

__Banner crosses his arms over his chest. “You want to be bait.”_ _

__“I want to be proactive.”_ _

__“And if she leads with radiation?”_ _

__“Already on it. Mark IX’s gonna be lead lined—full radiation shielding.”_ _

__Steve moves away from Natasha to face Tony. “What about civilians?”_ _

__“We pick someplace isolated. Say I’m going to go put out a forest fire or something.”_ _

__“She’s gotten the better of us before.” Steve frowns and takes another step towards Tony. “And your suit didn't do us a lot of good then.”_ _

__“Yeah, well, I promise not to poke at strange robots this time.”_ _

__“That’s exactly what you want to do. You’ve got no patience for protocol, and that’s how we got here in the first place.”_ _

__Tony’s whole body tenses. “No. You don’t get to pin that on me. None of us knew what the hell she was up to, and sooner or later the whole thing would have gone down just the way it did, whether I dicked around waiting on your ‘protocol’ or not. All I did was get it over with quicker.”_ _

__“You don’t know that. Procedures exist because they work. And right now the procedure is we sit tight and wait for S.H.I.E.L.D. to track Baker down.”_ _

__“We were outclassed before, Stark,” Natasha points out. “And Clint and I don’t get lead-lined suits.”_ _

__“I’ll make you some, it’ll be awesome. You can be my sidekicks. Iron Widow, Iron… Hawk?” He glances at them both, and apparently reads them right. “Nevermind. But we can do this. We bring in some big guns. It’s not like we’re the only names in super heroics anymore. There’s Danvers—Rhodey knows her, sounds like she’s hot stuff. I don’t know why Fury didn’t invite her into our merry little band to begin with. Might be able to get Rambeau too. And Pym and van Dyne, doing their big and little routine. Think he’s going big, lately, but I can’t keep track. T’Challa, Morse. Rhodey, obviously. I’ll even call that Richards prick if I have to. Guy owes me a favor. Let’s just fucking do this thing. Get it over with.”_ _

__“There is reason to take the offense,” Thor agrees. “We cannot hide here forever.”_ _

__Clint has to admit that the idea’s appealing. “I wouldn’t mind a little action, and a chance to get out of here before I’m too old for it.”_ _

__Coulson throws him a look, and Clint feels almost guilty. Stark’s plan isn’t safe, and Clint can’t afford to be reckless—it’s not just his own life he’s playing with._ _

__“Probably not a great idea, though,” he admits. “We’re still a risk.”_ _

__Coulson nods. “Nobody wants to get her more than I do, Stark, I assure you. But we’ve got to do this right.”_ _

__“Pretty sure I want to get this chick a hell of a lot more than you, actually,” Tony drawls. “You’re not the one she pumped full of liquid time-bomb.”_ _

__When Steve speaks, Clint’s pretty sure he intends to sound calm and reassuring, but he’s just as sure that Tony’s going to take it as patronizing. “Let’s just give it a little time. We can always try your plan later if S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t getting anywhere tracking her down.”_ _

__Tony glares at all of them. "There's only so long we can hide here before—"_ _

__"Electronic security breach in progress at the Malibu house," JARVIS warns._ _

__"That," Tony finishes, his voice vicious. His attention fixes on the display, hands flying over and through the projections to pull together the information. “No. No no no no no. Shit.”_ _

__Banner moves to his side. “What can I do?”_ _

__Stark’s eyes don’t leave the display. “Shit. Fuck.” He belatedly glances at Banner. “Make sure my signal stays masked—JARVIS can’t spare the bandwidth.” He pauses. “Do you… do that?”_ _

__“Yeah, that I can do.” Banner brings up a display of his own and goes to work._ _

__Natasha joins them both. “I’ll see if I can track her attack back to the source. Your resistance could distract her enough that I’ll get through.”_ _

__Tony acknowledges that with a grunt, his fingers dancing frantically across the display, playing some kind of defense that Clint can’t even begin to follow. He’s not an idiot, whatever certain S.H.I.E.L.D. agents may think. He knows his way around a computer and then some. But he’s no tech whiz either, and he knows enough to know that this is out of his league._ _

__He glances to Coulson, who’s muttering a steady stream of orders into his com. Strictly speaking, Coulson shouldn’t be in charge of the S.H.I.E.L.D. contingent guarding the Malibu mansion, but that doesn’t mean he’s not._ _

__Clint glances to Thor and Steve, neither of whom seem to have a better idea of how to help than he does. Clint motions towards the kitchen with his head, and they nod and follow him in. “Coffee’s probably in order,” he notes. “JARVIS?”_ _

__“JARVIS is a little fucking busy,” Tony snarls from the living room, and Clint winces and examines the coffee maker. Sure enough there’s a hidden control panel on the side, and he manages to get it going without JARVIS’s aid._ _

__“Maybe some breakfast,” Steve suggests, and Clint blinks. Somehow he hadn’t noticed the lightening skies outside, and only now realizes that it’s been morning for some time already._ _

__He glances around. With the commotion in the other room and the increasing sense that even here they’re personally under siege, he finds himself surprised that the kitchen looks the same as always. Cooking feels a little inappropriate. Still, they can do that without JARVIS’s help, which, Clint realizes, is more than can be said for ordering in. He nods to Steve. “I’ll take care of it.”_ _

__Steve glances out into the living room, and apparently sees no opening for his skills. “Let me help.”_ _

__Two people, let alone three, are in no way necessary to make eggs and bacon, but Clint nods anyway. “You do the bacon?”_ _

__Steve smiles gratefully and rummages around for a pan._ _

__Clint glances at Thor. “Um. Maybe make some toast?”_ _

__“Gladly.”_ _

__They settle into the food preparation, all listening to the periodic curses and snippets of talk from Tony and the others. None of it sounds good, and Clint keeps his eyes on his cooking._ _

__“We are going to have to do something at some point,” he notes in a low voice to Steve, who stands beside him at the stove._ _

__Steve pokes unhappily at a still-flaccid strip of bacon. “S.H.I.E.L.D. can handle this. They are handling it.”_ _

__“Not that well, so far.”_ _

__“This lady is a real strategist. All the more reason we shouldn’t rush headlong into anything. You can’t think Stark’s plan is a good idea.”_ _

__Clint sighs. He ought to agree—Tony's plan has its flaws, and he knows that given time, they can probably come up with something better. But he itches all the way down to his bones to be doing something. ”I’m not sure ‘good idea’ is still on the options list. I think we’re down to ‘least bad’ at this point.”_ _

__Thor nods. "It is a hard thing to ask of us, to remain here while the battle is fought elsewhere."_ _

__"Don't I know it,” Steve agrees. “But we could do more harm than good if we go off half-cocked.”_ _

__Clint ducks his head and stirs at the eggs more vigorously than is really called for. “You just—“ He looks over at Steve. “We’re just sitting here while—“ He takes a breath. He can’t quite explain the frustration, and he’s tried to keep it tamped down, because he really does know that there’s a reason that they need to stay put. But he can’t for an instant like it, and any other option is starting to look pretty damned good._ _

__“I get it,” Steve assures him, but Clint gives him a skeptical look. Steve’s voice turns hard. “I spent the start of the war marked 4F and the year after that tagging along behind a bunch of chorus girls. If you think I don’t get your frustration you’re out of your mind.”_ _

__Shit. If ever there were a trump card, that was it. “Sorry. You get it and then some, OK? But I can’t just—“_ _

__“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “I know. Look, S.H.I.E.L.D. just got her name today. Well, yesterday. Give it a little while.”_ _

__Clint sighs, gives a short nod, and starts making up plates._ _

__When he returns to the living room, armed with food and coffee, everyone’s eyes are glued to the displays, and Tony’s fingers move faster than Clint would have thought possible. Under his breath, Tony continues to mutter “no no no no no” and by Banner and Natasha’s faces, their tasks aren’t going much better._ _

__Clint just stands there, not remotely inclined to interrupt them, even to offer coffee. As he watches, the tension ratchets further still, Tony’s fingers flying impossibly faster as his lips close in panicked silence._ _

__It has to break, or stop, or _something_ because this level of tension is in no way sustainable, except that then it does break, and it turns out that’s actually worse._ _

__Tony drops his hands and turns away, his head bowed and his fingers curling themselves into fists. “Pull it. Shut down the power, cut the landlines. Protocol: Salt the Earth.”_ _

__Natasha continues to work at her station, but Banner takes a step back and watches Tony. “What is—?”_ _

__Tony lets out a long breath. “Destroys the unique tech at the mansion. If she gets control of any of the sensor arrays, or finds her way into the building, she won’t get anything from it.”_ _

__Clint swallows. This wasn’t a battle—no one died, no shots were fired—but it feels like a defeat anyway._ _

__“No indication yet of any physical incursion,” Coulson reports. “Your staff were all safely evacuated, and S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel will continue to stand guard. But she probably knows now that you aren’t there and never were.”_ _

__Tony’s jaw clenches, and he doesn’t answer._ _

__Natasha lets out a breath and moves away from the screen. “No joy on her location. There are some clues we can follow up, but it might not amount to anything.”_ _

__“How is she this good?” Banner murmurs._ _

__“Genius, apparently,” Coulson notes._ _

__Natasha nods. “She’s probably been coding since she was in diapers.”_ _

__Clint lets his eyes flick between the four of them, reading the defeat in the lines of their bodies. The silence stretches too long, and he can't keep himself from breaking it. "There's, uh, food. And coffee." He holds the tray out, tentatively, not really sure who he's offering it to._ _

__And then Tony's hand flies out, wrenching the tray out of his grip and sending plates and mugs flying across the room. "Knock it the hell off with your goddamned food. Nobody is fucking hungry." He shoves the tray at Clint. In his surprise Clint lets it knock him a little off balance and he steps back. Tony turns to move away, muttering under his breath. “Useless fucking—”_ _

__Clint flinches back like he’s been slapped, and Tony doesn’t finish whatever he was going to say because suddenly Natasha is between them, her fist curled around the front of Tony’s shirt. "Cut the crap, Stark."_ _

__He pushes back. “Yeah, I don't think I will. This is my Tower and those are my systems and it’s _my_ fucking life that she's taking apart piece by piece.” He shoves Natasha harder and breaks free of her grip. “Maybe you two don't have anything to lose, but I do, and I'm damned well—" Natasha's fist connects with Tony's face and he staggers back._ _

__She grabs him again and pulls him close. “You think that was a loss? You think you _lost_ something, Stark? You don’t have the faintest idea how much it’s possible to lose.”_ _

__Something inside Clint shudders. Natasha’s right. Stark has no idea, but she does, and so does he. He can’t stay, can’t watch as Steve and Thor and Banner push them apart. He takes a couple of steps backwards and then turns and runs—jogs, it’s a jog and he’s not running away. He just needs some space._ _

__There’s space enough in the gym, and he doesn’t break his stride as he grabs his bow, doesn’t even slow when he reaches the far wall and the handholds that let him climb straight up to the ledge near the ceiling. Clint isn’t sure why it’s there—maybe Stark figured the big guy liked to climb, or maybe he wanted someplace where an observer could steer clear of him. Either way it suits Clint perfectly._ _

__He perches on the edge and enjoys the easy draw and release of his bow as he puts a couple of arrows into the opposite wall._ _

__The door opens sooner than he expected, and Coulson’s eyes find him immediately. Coulson glances at the arrows planted in the wall, and then back at Clint. “Is that a good idea?”_ _

__“I’m not using the adamantium tips. These won’t hurt anything but the padding, and Stark can damn well afford to get that patched.”_ _

__“Stark’s an ass,” Coulson notes. “But you knew that before today.” He moves to the handholds on the side nearest Clint’s ledge and starts climbing._ _

__Clint peers down. “You sure you should be doing that? What with the whole near death experience thing?”_ _

__“I wouldn’t be on active duty if I couldn’t manage a damned climbing wall.”_ _

__“Yeah.” Clint draws and sinks another arrow into the padding just above the door. “Nat OK?”_ _

__Coulson reaches the top and settles next to him, letting his legs hang over the edge. “She’s fine. And so is Stark.”_ _

__“Nat pulled that punch—he’ll barely have a black eye.”_ _

__“Still, it didn’t help either of them.”_ _

__Clint ducks his head and puts the bow down. “She was defending me.”_ _

__“Yeah, we got that. Doesn’t make you responsible.” Coulson snorts. “Frankly I’m impressed that it took this long. I expected extracurricular sparring well before now.”_ _

__Clint can’t argue with that. He picks his bow back up and launches another arrow._ _

__“You know better than to take anything Stark says seriously. Especially after the morning he’s had.”_ _

__Clint shrugs. “He’s not wrong. It was stupid enough of S.H.I.E.L.D. to take me back after Loki. Now—” He turns to Coulson and lets himself study the man’s face. It’s lined in ways that it wasn’t just a year ago, but the simple certainty that’s always made his eyes so grounding is still there. He has to look away, because he can’t ask what he has to ask while he looks into those eyes. “However this goes down, I’m finished with S.H.I.E.L.D., aren’t I? This is— this is just a bridge too far, I get it,” he can hear his own voice speeding up, his words rushing together. “Not your fault, don’t beat yourself up over it, I just— I just need to hear it from you.” Because if he’s just out, just done, he deserves to be told. He’s earned that much._ _

__Coulson doesn’t answer for a second, and Clint can’t keep himself from glancing back. Coulson looks as annoyed as only he can look. “For the love of—” Coulson snorts. “Christ, Barton, you’re too smart to pull that kind of crap. You’re not going anywhere if I have to haul you back by your hair. You’re one of the best agents S.H.I.E.L.D.’s ever had, and whatever happens, we’re keeping you.”_ _

__“Right.” He shouldn't argue the point. His feelings can’t be S.H.I.E.L.D.’s priority. If they need to act like there’s still any doubt, he ought to let them. Fate of the world and so on. He isn’t bigger than the organization. And if it helps Coulson to act like this is all going to be fine, well, Clint shouldn’t take that away from him._ _

__“They kept me,” Coulson notes quietly, “hole through the chest and everything.”_ _

__“That’s a little different.”_ _

__“Not saying it’s not going to suck. It might take time, might take more restrictions than you’d like. But don’t you dare think I’d abandon you. You damn well know better, Clint.”_ _

__Clint winces. Trust Coulson to get the crux of the matter, to pick the one word that’s floated in his brainspace since he had a chance to consider what this whole serum business means for him. He swallows. “Says you. Fury might feel different.”_ _

__“Fury knows a good agent when he’s got one. And if he takes leave of his senses, we’ll deal with it together. Fury and Hill aren’t going to make it without the three of us, and they damn well know it.”_ _

__Clink blinks. He is in fact not dumb, so the implications of that sink in in short order. “You wouldn’t.”_ _

__“It’s not going to matter. But I don’t know what I’d be doing in S.H.I.E.L.D. if they can’t find a place for their two best agents.”_ _

__Coulson can’t be serious, but that he’d even suggest something like that— Clint shakes his head, wraps that thought up and hides it someplace deep. He can’t afford to think about it, because it’s too much, and he doesn’t understand it. Or deserve it, either._ _

__“Rogers would have a thing or two to say too. And Thor and even Stark, believe it or not.” Clint actually does believe it, oddly enough. “Admittedly Stark’s not necessarily the one you want in your corner with Fury, but...” Coulson trails off with a grin, and Clint mirrors the expression without thinking. “Like it or not, you’re on a team now.”_ _

__And Clint doesn’t like it—can’t let himself like it. Because being a part of something? His whole life that’s never been anything but a prelude to disaster. And he’s got a head start this time, because he can already feel this particular disaster pumping through his veins with every beat of his heart._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, there was actual plot in this chapter! Who knew this fic had a plot? (Um, I did, I swear. It just took a little prodding to set things in motion. Seven chapters of prodding, apparently. Uh… sorry?) Here we go…


	9. Frying Pan, Fire (at least it’s not cold)

They may all be cooped up on one floor together, but the floor’s a big one, and the others are easy to avoid. Tony’s room is comfortable, and while it’s not well stocked for food, he really isn’t hungry.

He’s got work to do.

He gives up trying to track Baker’s signal back to wherever she’s hiding after only a couple of hours, and moves on to the suit. Getting the lead lining thick enough to be worth anything takes some rejiggering, requires a power boost, detracts from maneuverability a little, but it’s absolutely do-able. By the time his stomach starts to protest that breakfast and lunch may have been expendable, but dinner is not, he’s got Mark IX fabricating, and he’s nearly ready to start work on a couple of new suits, whether Clint and Natasha want them or not.

“JARVIS, is anybody in the common rooms?”

“Agents Coulson and Romanoff are in the living room, and Captain Rogers and Agent Barton are in the kitchen.”

Tony grunts. He’s not hungry enough to brave that crowd just yet.

He ought to go back to the signal trace, but it’s worthless. He calls up his old tech backups instead, and mournfully reviews Dummy’s code.

It’s idiotic to get sentimental about a hunk of machinery at a time like this, but he can’t help but think that the backups can’t possibly recreate the ramshackle construction and slightly buggy wiring he’s used to. Dummy and the others aren’t—weren’t—his friends or even his pets. But they've been a fixture in the Malibu workshop for years now, and he hates to think that when all this is over he’ll be returning to a pile of scraps where the loyal things used to putter around. 

Still, it’s better than letting Baker get her hands on all his best toys, Dummy included. She may be good—troublingly, humiliatingly good—but digital security arguably aside he’s still better, and he’ll be damned if he gives her the first opportunity to learn anything from him.

His muscles protest his attempt to stand after so many hours slumped on the couch, but the stretch feels a little bit good, so even after he’s poured himself a drink from the suite’s liquor cabinet he remains standing, pacing back and forth as he sips the scotch. He drinks it fast to enjoy the burn all down his throat, and only remembers that he hasn’t eaten all day when he starts to feel the effects of his second drink as if it were his fifth.

“JARVIS, anybody out there now?”

“Agent Barton is in the living room.”

Tony settles back down to work. It only takes a couple of hours to iron out the details of the new suits—the basic War Machine specs need a few modifications to support the lead lining, but nothing legitimately challenging.

It’s all settled but the paint job when Tony decides that he actually does have to find something to eat no matter who’s between him and the kitchen.

He makes his way through the dark hallway and winces only a little at the single lamp illuminating part of the expansive living room.

He walks on by, but Clint’s voice stops him. “Hey.”

Tony turns, arranging his expression to show a little of the guilt he feels. “Hey.” He glances around and gives an uneasy laugh. “Turns out I’m hungry after all.”

“Hope you’re not asking me to make you dinner.”

“Kind of figured that ship had sailed.”

Clint stands and puts his book down. “Do you even know how to cook?”

Tony shrugs. “Not as such. But cooking’s just applied chemistry, and chemistry’s easy, so—“

“You’ve… never put that theory to the test, have you?”

“Not a lot of reason to, no.” Tony moves to the kitchen and pulls out bread and cold cuts and slaps together a series of sandwiches. By now he could eat the whole fucking loaf of bread and everything they’ve got to top it with.

He glances back to see Clint leaning against the doorframe. “Hope you’re not waiting for an apology, because, you’ve met me, right?”

“Jesus, you’re an ass.”

“Right. Glad to hear we’ve met. Also a genius, by the way, which is why I’ve designed you your very own suit. Flight, lasers, the whole shebang. Plus bonus radiation shielding. I’m thinking… purple? Maybe some black trim? I’m flexible, but you seem like a guy who’d look good in purple. Dark purple maybe, not unlike my eye, courtesy of your BFF.”

Clint moves past him to get a beer out of the fridge, and Tony catches the door before it closes and grabs one for himself.

“You kind of deserved it.”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees, knocking the cap off his beer and taking a long swallow. “Designed her a suit too.”

“So, you don’t apologize, you just make people things.”

“Things are way better than apologies.”

“Not really sure one of your suits is my style.”

“Is getting soaked to the gills in gamma radiation more your thing? Or hiding out here and never leaving?” Tony regards him with narrowed eyes. He still isn’t sure if Clint’s going to be a good little soldier about all this or not—the man seems to have some sense, and Tony has a feeling his tongue is somewhere in the vicinity of his cheek on the “yes Sir” “no Sir” bit, but every time Rogers or Coulson look at him with those disappointed mentor eyes he seems to fall right in line. Probably a pattern that’s going to continue, but he’s worth a shot. “We haven’t even made it to the two week mark yet—how do you expect this to play out?”

Clint leans against the wall and studies the ceiling, the neck of the beer bottle held in a death grip. “I made a promise to stay put. So, not much choice on my end.” Tony snorts, and Clint’s eyes fix on him. “You made a promise too, I seem to remember.”

“I only promised to stick around until Bruce clears me,” Tony points out.

“If you think Banner’s going to clear you for your bait plan, I think you’re reading your lab buddy wrong.”

Tony shrugs. It’s true—Bruce is going to be a stick in the mud on that one, but Tony’s pretty sure he can be talked around. In any case, Tony’s not what you’d call a man of his word. Or, he is, mostly, when there isn’t a decent reason not to be, but circumstances have a tendency to overtake promises, and Tony refuses to be formalist about these things.

Clint nods, and Tony’s pretty sure that if nothing else Clint at least appreciates his position.

“So, you really saying no to that suit? It could come in handy.”

Clint cocks his head to the side. “Purple, huh?” His eyes narrow. “You’ve seen the pictures, haven’t you?”

“I _may_ have had some interns dig up archival photos of the ‘world’s greatest marksman,’ yes. You’d be surprised how little of that is digitized so far. Or, was, I mean. I’m thinking of emailing them to Gawker.”

“You do know I’m an assassin, right?”

“I’m way too pretty to kill.” He picks up one of the sandwiches and takes a bite. “Yes or no on the suit?” he asks, his mouth still full.

Clint takes a long pull on his beer bottle. “Yes.”

Tony nods. “Good.” He picks up his plate and returns the rest of the sandwich to it. “We can do the fitting first thing in the morning.” He grabs his beer and clinks it against Clint’s on his way out the door. 

He hears Clint’s murmured “thanks,” and smiles softly as he goes, but makes no reply.

The hallway remains dim enough that Tony doesn’t see Thor leaning against the wall until he raises a hand in greeting. “JARVIS informed me that you would be returning shortly.”

Tony frowns. He’s barely spoken with Thor since they’ve been camping out in the Tower, and certainly Thor hasn’t sought him out like this before. “Do you… uh… want to come in?”

“If I may, I would speak with you.”

“Uh, yeah, permission granted. Knock yourself out.” He palms open the door and gestures with his beer bottle for Thor to precede him. “Drink?” he asks, pointing to the liquor cabinet as he settles himself on the couch and takes another bite of sandwich.

Thor shakes his head and sits opposite Tony. “I am all too aware that this is not my realm. It may not be my place to speak, but I wanted to let you know that I understand your impatience.”

Tony snorts. “Let me guess. You get it, but I should be a good boy and follow orders.”

Thor chuckles. “That advice would ring hollow from me, I fear. When the need for vengeance runs hot in the veins, it’s a hard thing not to satisfy it, however foolish it may be.”

“And that’s the part I was waiting for—‘foolish.’ My plan’s a good one. I’m not suggesting we go off half-cocked here, I’m talking the full cock, multiple cocks, my plan is like an orgy.” Thor gives him an odd look and a thought occurs. “How does Allspeak work with double entendres anyway? Seriously, you’re like a linguist’s wet dream, you know that? We’ve got to get you in a room with Noam Chomsky one of these days, that would be— I mean, wow, that would be fascinating on so many levels.” Thor just studies Tony’s face, obviously waiting for him to come to a point of some kind. Tony takes a firm grip on his thought process and wrenches it back to the matter at hand. “Right, getting a little off track, never mind, we’ll set that up another day. My point is that I do have a plan.”

Thor nods. “I don’t presume to tell you what to do. But whatever happens, I will fight by your side.”

Tony blinks, taking in the earnest conviction on Thor’s face. Tony’s not entirely sure how they got from name-calling and trading blows in some European forest to this. But he can’t find any deceit, any condescension or reluctance in Thor’s offer. For once in his life Tony comes up with a reasonable response. “Thank you.” He glances down at his hands and then up at Thor again. “Same here, if you ever need it.”

“I expected nothing less.” Thor stands. “It is late—I should take my leave.”

Tony polishes off the sandwiches in short order after the door closes behind Thor, mulling over that conversation in his head. Not like he’s going to try an ambush with just one person backing him up, even if that person happens to be the functional equivalent of a god. Still, that his plan has any support at all is a welcome relief.

He stands and stretches. Thor’s right—it is on the late side, and it’s been well over a day since he’s slept. But even tired as he is, when he thinks of going to bed he knows that he’d just lie there, eyes screwed shut, while sleep refuses to come.

“JARVIS, is Bruce up?”

“Dr. Banner is working in the laboratory.” Excuse enough. If Bruce isn’t sleeping, Tony can go yell at him for it instead of fruitlessly trying himself.

But when Tony arrives at the lab, Bruce doesn’t look like a man who needs sleep. His eyes are fixed on a holographic model and his lips hang slightly open as he examines a clump of projected molecules. He doesn’t look up, and Tony stops just inside the door and watches his face as he works—there’s something to the breathless concentration that he can’t bring himself to interrupt. Bruce’s fingers move slowly within the model, making one deliberate tweak after another, and Tony has almost figured out what he’s doing when he lets his hand fall into his lap and looks up.

“Sorry. I was—”

“Refining the myostatin model to take into account variations in radiation exposure,” Tony finishes for him with a smile, and Bruce mirrors the expression. “More or less how I would have done it, which is to say, brilliantly.”

Bruce snorts, but he doesn't look displeased. "What brings you here?"

Tony shrugs. "Felt like showing my face again."

"How's your eye?"

He shrugs again. "I've had worse."

"Given your history, that's not saying much."

"The eye's fine—nothing I wasn’t asking for.” Tony wanders over to look at Bruce’s model.

“Being an ass doesn’t justify—”

Tony cuts him off. “There’s an argument to be made that I kinda lost it.”

Bruce chuckles. “Talk to me again when your tantrum’s taken out a couple of city blocks.”

“I did keep my pants—a fact for which I’m properly grateful.” One corner of the projection catches his eye and he leans over Bruce’s shoulder. “This is new.”

“Yeah,” Bruce agrees. “The model came up with something intriguing. If this is right, the serum protects the whole body from radiation damage, but it funnels the energy through the cingulate cortex.”

Suddenly Tony sees it, and sucks in a sharp breath. “And then the myostatins—”

“Right. They kind of... reflect off the cortex and invade the whole rest of the body.”

Tony whistles. “And then some. Goddamn, Bruce.” Tony shakes his head. “There’s this little restaurant in Stockholm, remind me to tell you about it before, you know—”

Bruce turns, confusion all over his face, and Tony realizes that he’s standing too close. His face is just inches from Bruce’s and for a heartbeat he wants to move forward instead of back, and plant a celebratory kiss on Bruce’s lips. But he cracks a grin instead and shifts slightly away. “When you go pick up your Nobel, I mean, you should check it out.”

Bruce snorts and rolls his eyes. “I don’t even know if the model is right, yet. But it’s... promising. And if we can nail down how this thing works, maybe...”

“Maybe we can stop it.”

Bruce grimaces. “I don’t know about that. But we might manage to channel it, at least. Maybe.”

Tony allows himself to give Bruce’s shoulder a friendly squeeze. “I am impressed, Dr. Banner. And I don’t impress easy.”

Bruce colors a little, and it’s impossibly adorable. No one that brilliant ought to be permitted to simultaneously be that cute, there should definitely be a law of some kind. A law of nature, probably. Though Bruce makes a habit of breaking those anyway, so Tony really shouldn’t be surprised. He tries to clear his head and realizes that Bruce is regarding him oddly. “Have you slept at all since yesterday?”

“Strictly speaking? No. Who wastes time sleeping when there’s evil afoot?”

“People who don’t want to be so tired they’re ‘useless,’ or so I’m reliably informed.”

Tony winces. “Fair point—quoting me will always win you points in my book. Unless it’s inconvenient to me, and then you lose points very quickly.” He shrugs. “I’ll sleep when I can.”

Bruce’s slow nod suggests that he knows that Tony refers to the actual ability to sleep, and not just finding the time. “You could stand to relax a little.”

“If you’ve got that big bag of weed handy, I wouldn’t be averse to raiding your stash.”

“My imaginary stash that you made up?” Bruce's fond smile undercuts the irritation in his voice. “Maybe, um, a massage?” He ducks his head before jerking it back up and making a valiant attempt to look businesslike. “You carry a lot of tension.”

The thought of skilled hands soothing the muscles of his back, digging in and touching him, skin to skin—it’s incredibly appealing. A backrub may seem a little tame for Tony Stark, but he’s a sensualist through and through, and there’s very little more sensual than massage. “I’m not sure my usual masseuse is available at the moment. She’s pretty flexible on timing, but I don’t think she’s got the security clearance to be here just now—“

Bruce gives a tiny flinch. “Right, I, uh—“

His discomfort is almost as adorable as his bashful modesty. “Unless you were making an offer?”

Bruce produces an air of nonchalance, and it’s almost convincing. “If you’d like.”

“Yeah, I could go for that.”

Bruce moves to stand behind him, and then Tony feels strong hands dig into his shoulders, and he has to actually concentrate in order to keep from letting out a little moan. The sensation would be nicer if his shirt were off, but Tony’s not sure how Bruce would take that, and the last thing he wants to do is put an end to the proceedings. Bruce’s fingers work up and down along his spine, across to the sides of his back, up to his shoulders again and the back of his neck. Even clothed, even standing, he can feel his body respond to the touch with a gentle surge of endorphins that breaks through his brittle tension.

“Good?” Bruce asks, his voice soft, and Tony murmurs his agreement. “Good enough to sleep?”

Tony considers, and finds his answer coming out in a soft yawn.

Bruce chuckles. “Go. Sleep.”

Tony eyes the lab couch. It’s an exact copy of the one he keeps in the lab on his own floor, and in his Malibu workshop too. It is, he knows from long experience, the very best couch for sleeping on—its prowess at that purpose being second only to its suitability for screwing—and he can’t bring himself to contemplate going as far as his bedroom.

“Here’s good.” He gestures.

Bruce gives another smug little chuckle that Tony would resent if he hadn’t very much earned it. “Good night, Tony.”

Tony manages to mumble out a “good night” in return before JARVIS dims the lights and he drifts into sleep.

He’s jolted awake some indeterminate amount of time later by JARVIS’s voice in its urgency setting—faster than normal, and slightly louder. "Your attention, Sir."

Tony blinks and tries to remember why he’s on the couch. He locates the memory in short order, which is a nice surprise. Generally when he has to think about why he’s woken up in such and such a place, the reasons for it hide themselves behind a nauseous haze and a sharp throbbing between the eyes. But this morning he’s neither drunk nor hung over, which he has to admit makes for a pleasant change. Not that he's at all sure it's morning.

"Dr. Baker is attempting to force a communication into all speakers in the building."

Tony bolts to his feet and takes a breath, firmly tamping down the tight panic building in his chest. He gives himself three additional seconds to pull himself together, and then manages to respond. "Let it through, just to this room."

"Come out come out wherever you are, Stark. You've only got so many hidey holes, and I don't believe for a minute that you're in some shabby little safehouse. Tony Stark needs his luxuries. You think you're a big man, but you're not half the man my father was...."

She continues, but Tony tunes her out. “Run trace program sigma, see if we can’t nail this asshole to whatever hidey hole _she’s_ in.”

“Signal determined.” Tony’s eyebrows shoot up. There’s no way the program could have tracked it back to the source so quickly unless she’s not even trying to hide it. And that means— fuck. That means nothing at all good.

“The signal is emanating from a location immediately above Stark Tower, Sir.”

Of course. Fuck fuck motherfuck god-fucking-damnit. Tony takes off at a run out of the lab and toward the elevators. “She’s on the roof? How did you not lead with that? Never mind, get Mark IX ready on the penthouse level and alert Thor and Coulson and— everybody, alert everybody.”

“Reminder that you have voluntarily confined yourself to this floor.”

“Hard override, JARVIS.”

“May I suggest that you await the others before selecting a course of action.”

“Suggest whatever you want, but get Mark IX ready and open the damned doors.”

“Yes Sir.”

The elevator stands open when Tony arrives, and starts its ascent the instant he’s on. When it reaches the penthouse he leaves it behind without a backward glance, and doesn’t break stride as the new suit assembles itself around him on his way to the roof. It hasn’t even been two weeks, but it’s a relief anyway to feel the suit encase him, its powers coming under his command, its strength reinforcing his own.

“Where is she, JARVIS?” he grits, but then he sees her, a dark silhouette on the rooftop, just shy of the edge. He doesn’t approach—fool him once, shame on you, and so on—but he raises his arm and readies his weapons systems. “You know most people call first. I’m fresh out of tea and crumpets, so you’re going to have to settle for a spot of violence.”

“I doubt it.” She tosses a little sphere into the air, catching it carefully on the back of one hand and allowing it to roll up and down her arm before returning it to her palm. “Know what this is?”

“A bullshit distraction? Pretty sure that’s your M.O.”

She toys with the thing, passing it from hand to hand. “Do you know how much energy you can pack into something this size?” She holds it up, and city lights glint off its metallic surface. “Of course you do. Do you miss it? I never made proper weapons before you killed my father, but they are fun, aren’t they?” She tosses it again, and he winces as she catches it, even though for all he knows the thing does nothing at all. “All that force, all that power, wrapped up and tied with a bow—just waiting until you need it.”

Tony lets her keep talking. “JARVIS,” he subvocalizes, for the AI’s ears only, “get whatever you can on that thing. And make sure the others can hear us.” He glances around but doesn’t see anybody from the team yet.

“A faint gamma signature is detected, consistent with a shielded gamma weapon,” JARVIS reports, bringing up readings on the inside of the visor.

A sick, heavy feeling settles in Tony’s gut, and he has to remind himself that he’s safe, that the suit’s shielding will stand, as long as he doesn’t let her get it open again. He hopes to hell that Coulson will have the sense to keep Barton and Romanoff off the roof, and curses himself for not getting their suits finished in time.

“You must know by now, what it is?” Baker asks.

“Still going with ‘bullshit,’ much like the rest of your plan. How’d you get up here, anyway?” Stalling he’s good at. Stalling he can do. And with any luck it will give him time to come up with something better.

She taps a strap on her shoulder and he can just make out a sort of backpack.

He snorts. “Still with the jetpacks, huh? Figured you’d have moved on by now.”

“Some of us don’t feel the need to overcompensate.”

“Ooo overcompensation. Nobody’s ever accused me of that before. Almost as good as ‘plutocrat.’ Which, I’ll give you this much, I haven’t heard that one in a while. Or ever. My _father_ maybe got called a plutocrat, but that insult’s been dated since before you were born.”

“On the subject of fathers, did you enjoy killing mine? Was that a highlight, for you? I'd only just found him, you know."

“Cry me a river. Daddy made his choice—wasn’t our fault that he went all Godzilla on Haiti.”

"True, your little band of freaks is just a link in the chain. Still, I'm not losing any sleep over making you more freakish still. Golden boy Tony Stark turned into a slavering beast—how long before S.H.I.E.L.D. comes to take you out like they did my father? Who do you think they’ll send? There was an old lady who swallowed a fly..."

"OK, just so we're both clear, you know you're a lunatic, right?"

"Sooner or later the weight of it all will be too much and the whole thing will come tumbling down." On that last Baker throws her little bomb up above her head and makes as if to let it fall before snatching it out of the air again. Tony winces in spite of himself.

A tiny motion catches his eye. A little curve of red reflects the light from a neighboring building, and Tony hopes it's visible only in his own display. But her expression tells him they have no such luck.

"So here's the situation." She extends the arm holding the bomb backwards over the empty air at the edge of the roof. "This little darling,” she smiles, “it’s nothing too showy, no big bang, but I assure you it carries enough power to irradiate half of midtown. Your precious glowing tower will be covered in it. And all the people below—?” She glances down. “It’s late, but I’m told this city never sleeps.”

“I’m hearing a lot of threats—what’s the ‘or’? What are you after?”

“I would think that was obvious. I’m after you.”

~

Phil takes six point five seconds to dress and is out the door of his suite by the eighth second following JARVIS’s advisory. The elevator doors close just as he rounds the corner into the living room, and he curses under his breath.

He hears footsteps and turns to see Thor, his face dark and his knuckles white around Mjölnir’s grip. Banner arrives a moment later, still in pajamas.

“Stark’s already headed for the roof.” Phil casts his eyes around the room, trying to gather his thoughts to propose their next move. “Goddamn that man. We need more time.”

Thor frowns. “Her presence is a challenge to him that he cannot refuse. After yesterday, it would take a better man than I to resist.”

He’s right, and Phil shouldn’t have expected any different from a man like Stark. But it’s a bad move—the wrong move—and Phil’s got a sinking feeling that it’s going to cost all of them. “She’s counting on that. We needed time to formulate a plan. He couldn’t have waited five damn minutes?”

Thor smiles tightly. “A man’s nature is a hard thing to change.”

Phil sighs. Doesn’t he know it.

Romanoff and Barton join them, both fully armed and ready, and Rogers follows close on their heels.

Phil looks to Rogers. “Stark’s already headed up to the roof.” He glances to Romanoff and Barton, “and you two are staying put.”

“The hell we are—” Barton objects, but Romanoff’s hand on his arm stops him. He regards Phil with wary eyes and finally nods. “Yeah.”

Good. He doesn’t need those two acting like idiots as well. He turns back to Rogers. “Cap? You got a gameplan?”

Rogers nods. “Thor, can you get to one of the other rooftops without being seen? We could use you nearby but out of her line of sight.”

“Gladly, Captain.” He starts for the stairwell, and Phil suspects that Stark’s going to be replacing the windows on the nearest floor that isn’t Hulk-proof.

“Coulson, you and I go to the penthouse, see if we can get onto the roof without catching her attention. If not, we get out there anyway—Stark’s gonna need backup.” He shifts to regard Barton and Romanoff. “Agents, monitor the situation, feed us whatever we need. Banner—”

But he’s interrupted by JARVIS, the AI’s usually gentle voice suddenly much faster. “Dr. Baker is on the south side of the roof, and she possesses what appears to be a gamma radiation weapon. Real time audio feed from Mr. Starks’ suit commences:

And then her voice invades the room, its polished veneer not hiding an underlying current of anxiety very well. “You must know by now, what it is?”

Stark replies, and it’s all tense banter, nothing useful. Phil shakes his head. “Cap?”

Rogers nods. “Doctor, come up to the penthouse and monitor from there. Figure out what you can from the readings on Baker’s weapon. With any luck that’s all we’ll need from you.”

Banner nods and he and Rogers head for the elevator, which opens as soon as they reach it.

Phil pauses briefly and nods at Barton and Romanoff. “We’ve got this.” They don’t look convinced, but he hasn’t got time to do anything about that.

When they arrive in the penthouse, Bruce moves to find a computer display out of sight from the rooftop exit, and Rogers motions to Phil to wait. Phil nods and Rogers slips out into the night. A count to twenty later, Coulson follows, drawing his service weapon and taking careful, silent steps, hoping that the night is dark enough for him to go unnoticed.

Baker’s voice carries in the cool, clear air, and Phil hears her before he gets a visual. "Sooner or later the weight of it all will be too much and the whole thing will come tumbling down." Phil would sniff disdainfully if he weren’t trying to keep silent—villains always repeat the same pabulum, and it gets tedious.

When Phil catches a glimpse of her she’s balancing nearly on the lip of the roof, and she’s tossing around a little globe that makes Phil’s chest tighten. There’s nothing obviously sinister about it—an ordinary ball, a little smaller than a softball, made of some kind of metal. But there’s no doubt in his mind that it’s the weapon JARVIS warned about.

“So here’s the situation,” she continues, and dangles the thing over the edge of the building. Phil freezes, his eyes darting around the buildings nearby, trying to pick out Thor, hoping he’s got his eyes on the ball. "This little darling, it’s nothing too showy, no big bang, but I assure you it carries enough power to irradiate half of midtown.” Phil takes another careful step and brings up his weapon—he can’t take the shot, not like this, but if an opportunity arises, he’s going to be ready. “Your precious glowing tower will be covered in it. And all the people below? It’s late, but I’m told this city never sleeps.”

And then Stark’s response, in the unnerving electronic voice of his suit. “I’m hearing a lot of threats—what’s the ‘or’? What are you after?”

“I would think that was obvious,” she answers, her voice full of menace. “I’m after you.”

Stark barks out a laugh. “OK, yeah, obviously. Care to be more specific? I mean, in bed? ‘Cause I could show you a good time. I don’t usually fuck people who inject me with shady chemicals, but I’m an open minded kind of guy, we can talk.”

“Lose the armor and we can talk. Otherwise—” she lets the bomb slide out of her fingers and down her arm before shifting to send it rolling back, almost past her fingertips before she closes her fist around it again.

“Yeah, that’s not going to work for me.”

She shrugs. “Suit yourself.” Bright light bursts behind her and she rises in the air. Phil tries to make out what she’s using, but then her arm shoots out and he watches a bright little dot arc up and over the side of the building, sparkling in Manhattan’s light.

Stark takes off in a roar of repulsors, streaking out and away to meet the falling globe. It’s over in a second and Stark rises above the city, the bomb in hand, and Phil sucks in a long breath. He surveys the skyline, trying to pick out where Baker’s gone to, but she’s already out of sight.

“OK then,” Rogers emerges from the shadows, but he’s far enough away that Phil can only hear him over the com. “Could have been worse. Can we get that thing someplace safe?”

“Don’t think so.” Stark’s voice vibrates with tension.

Phil freezes. “It’s going to—”

“Yep.”

There’s no portal this time, no out. Just eight million people rising early or snug in their beds or enjoying the waning night, all of them breathing the same air. Phil has no way to judge the power of the thing in Stark’s hand, but from his voice— Phil swallows hard. He racks his brain, but he’s got no ideas to offer, nothing he can do but watch Stark hover in the air, holding the little silver ball.

And then something happens to Stark’s suit—the panels of the glove holding the orb start to open out, their motion only just visible in what Coulson realizes is the first pre-dawn light. Stark’s bare hand grips the bomb and the panels of the suit close around it.

“Stark, what are you—”

“Suit’s shielded, remember? Here goes. Banner just better be right about the seru—” His voice cuts off as the armor jerks. A heartbeat later it returns, ringing out over the coms in a wordless scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funny story, when I started this fic, my outline was for 9 chapters, and I was figuring 40k words, tops. In spite of that, this _might_ not be a great place to end...


	10. The More Things Change (nothing stays the same)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, I am crazy nervous about this chapter, I’m not gonna lie.

Inside the suit, Tony is screaming.

Bruce's veins burn. His bones ache from the inside out and his skin stretches tight over muscle and sinew. Tony's screams cut into him like knives, sharp and jagged and cruel, and Bruce can think of nothing but the pain.

He needs to find the source of that pain and obliterate it. Needs to lash out, punish, destroy everyone and anyone responsible for drawing that sound out of Tony’s throat. Needs to let his rage tear him open and remake him into something powerful.

Except that he can't do any of that. Can’t lash out. Can’t let go. Because if Tony survives this—when Tony survives this, please let it be when—he's going to need the man, not the monster. Bruce just has to hold on long enough to get Tony into the Tower and out of the suit, and then Tony will stop screaming and Bruce can focus.

Bruce stands on the roof, and some part of him knows that he was inside the penthouse, before. He doesn’t know how he got from there to here, and he doesn’t care, can’t care, because then the light of Tony’s suit flickers. Tony's figure goes dark as his repulsors cut off, and his sudden fall is visible only in the city lights glinting off the armor.

Bruce doesn't even think—he pelts across the roof, straight for the edge. He lets his control melt away, burnt up by bright green rage and that agonized scream.

Until a firm hand grabs him, holds him, and he turns and snarls into Rogers' face. Rogers doesn’t flinch. “Look,” he commands, and Bruce looks.

The dim red gold blur still streaks towards the ground, and Bruce pushes Rogers away hard. It’s easy to do—the strength of his fury floods through him, and he takes a few long strides, ready again to jump.

But then he sees what Rogers means. There’s another blur of gold and red streaking up towards Tony, flying straight for him, and when they meet, Thor bears Tony up over his shoulder.

Bruce can see Rogers approach again from one side. He draws in a long breath and tries to remind himself of all the reasons he’s got to keep it together. But he can’t really remember them, can’t hear himself think over the sound of Tony’s pain, still reverberating over the com. “Stop,” he whispers. “JARVIS, cut it. Cut the com. Please.” He’s almost begging on that last and he can’t help it. It feels like cowardice, as if blocking out Tony's voice is a denial, a betrayal, of the man himself. But Bruce is not physically capable of listening to that sound and doing what he has to do. JARVIS does as asked, and Bruce blesses the silence. It lets him breathe, lets him draw himself together and think for one damned minute.

He looks to Rogers. “Tell Thor to get Tony into the Hulk Room. Get JARVIS to clear the doors and get the elevator out of the way. It’ll be faster if they can fly through the shaft.”

Rogers nods. If he’s put off by receiving orders from a man who just seconds ago was on the verge of dissolving into a mindless beast, he doesn’t show it.

Bruce doesn’t stay to watch. He has to get back to their floor, to be there when Thor gets Tony inside. He can’t stop, can’t think, can’t do anything but run.

Because whether Bruce can hear it or not, inside his suit Tony is still screaming.

~

Clint keeps his eyes on the screens, flipping through video feeds and data streams, trying to keep his thoughts together and on track.

A few cameras caught Baker swooping away to the west, but they lose her quickly, and she's too small to get picked up by radar tracking systems or anything else they've got. He racks his brain, tries to come up with some other option, but he’s got nothing. Only his long training allows him to concentrate even a little with the sound of Tony's agony ringing in his ears, and it isn't enough.

He glances at Natasha, whose attention stays on her work. She's always been better at focusing in these kinds of situations, and he knows enough about why that it makes him a little sick to think of it, even now. She taps a quick rhythm on the screen, bringing up a new set of intel, and as she scans through it her hand moves down to find his and gives a little squeeze.

Tony's voice cuts off, and Clint can't help but feel relief, even though the reason could be— anything, it could be anything, and it doesn’t bear thinking about.

The elevator doors open, and a second later a blur of armor and muscle and long blond hair streaks past them, and Clint's head jerks up to watch them go. They’re out of sight in an instant, and Clint exchanges a grim look with Natasha.

They’ve just returned their attention to their work when Banner comes pelting out of the stairwell. He slows and looks up when he sees them, but he doesn’t stop. “Stay clear of the gym,” he gasps out. “Could be... radiation... on the suit.”

He disappears around the corner, and for a long moment they just watch the space he left behind.

“Good luck, Doc,” Natasha murmurs.

~

Air burns in Bruce's lungs by the time he reaches the gym. Thor stands in the center of the room, still holding Tony in his arms.

“Put him down,” Bruce instructs, “gently… and then— shit, you... could have been exposed to...” His breath still comes in gasps, and he can’t explain fast enough. “Go to the lab... get JARVIS to scan you. He can walk you through... decontamination. Don’t get too close to anyone 'til you’re cleared.”

“I should be of assistance here.”

Bruce shakes his head and takes one more ragged breath before managing to speak in a nearly normal tone. “There _could_ be radiation outside the suit. There’s almost certainly radiation inside of it. I don’t know how much, and I don’t have the faintest idea what it would do to you.”

“But you—”

“I’m immune.”

Thor lays Tony down on the padded floor and shifts from one foot to another, uncertain. “Go,” Bruce spits out. “I need to get him out of the suit and I can’t do it until you’re gone.” It’s harsh—too harsh, like his breathing, like the blood in his veins, like Tony’s scream—but he can’t help it.

Thor goes.

Bruce takes another breath. Breathing is the start of everything else—if he doesn’t breathe, he won’t be of any use to anyone. “JARVIS, turn the com back on.”

“Yes Sir.”

Nothing changes. There’s nothing to hear. Tony isn’t screaming any longer, and Bruce thought that would be better, but the flaw in his reasoning is now brutally apparent. He drops to his knees by the suit where it lies, dark and lifeless. “JARVIS, how do I get the armor open?”

“The helmet is equipped with a manual release at the anterior joining.”

Bruce finds it, his fingers fumbling over the mechanism until he finally manages to trigger it and the visor slides up.

Tony’s eyes are closed, his face slack. Bruce has seen people die before, too many times, and this— He shoves the thought out of his head and slips two fingers into the helmet, under the jaw to press against Tony’s carotid artery. He lets out a long, grateful breath as he finds it and feels a weak but steady rhythm under his fingertips. He moves to raise the eyelid of one eye, but suddenly electricity arcs from one side of the helmet to the other, and he snatches his hand back without thinking.

The suit must be— the gamma pulse must not have knocked out all the electrical systems, and the ones that remain are going haywire. The physics behind it are familiar to him, but Bruce is woefully inexperienced in their practical applications. It’s never felt important before, but suddenly he’s in desperate need of skills he doesn’t have.

“I need— JARVIS, I need to get him out. The suit’s electrocuting him.”

“The Iron Man system has been drained of all electrical energy. It will be forty-nine seconds until the energy from Mr. Stark’s arc reactor is sufficient to restart it.”

Another crackle of electricity plays over Tony’s face, and JARVIS has to be wrong—something is causing this, and if he doesn’t make it stop, the steady rhythm of Tony’s heart won’t last.

Unless it’s the arc reactor itself. Bruce has no idea. He doesn’t know enough, doesn’t have anything like enough information on the generator buried in Tony’s chest.

All Bruce knows is that he has to get him out. Tony might not have forty-nine seconds.

He glances around the room. There isn’t much available; they didn’t plan for this. They should have, but didn’t. There’s some exercise equipment, and a pile of old electronics for some reason. He has the vague idea that Tony thought they’d give the other guy something to smash, which is so very Tony, which is so very much not on point right now because nothing there, nothing anywhere in the room is going to help him get Tony free. He has the insane thought that there ought to be a crowbar, and if he had a crowbar, maybe he could just—

A flicker of motion cuts off that train of thought, and none too soon.

It’s Tony’s eyes, and they’re open.

Relief floods Bruce's body, coursing through him like a drug. “Tony. Are you OK? Are you hurt?”

Tony’s lips move, but make no sound. He tries again. “I’m—” He pauses, as if he has to think about it. “I’m fine.” Another pause, another flicker of electricity that makes Bruce’s heart jump up in his throat. But it doesn’t seem to hurt him. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“I need to get you out of the suit, Tony, it’s— I don’t know what it’s doing.”

Tony blinks, and a moment later the armor flickers to life. “I’m fine,” he repeats. “JARVIS, ditch the suit." It unfolds around him and a smile forms on his lips. "I'm... extremely fine."

“You’re not fine, Tony,” Bruce can hear his own voice breaking, “you’re—” He’s lit up like a tesla coil. Bruce reaches out, takes a risk and grabs him, pulling him free of the armor. It’s terrible first aid procedure, but there’s no reason to expect spinal injury, and Bruce has to get him clear of whatever the suit is doing.

Tony’s skin under Bruce’s hand prickles with energy, but it’s like static, nothing more.

When Bruce pulls, Tony rolls off the suit and the momentum somehow carries them both further than Bruce intended, until Bruce lies flat on his back with Tony leaning over him.

The light doesn’t change. It continues to flicker, little fingers of it arcing and shifting on the surface of Tony’s skin, and it’s only then that Bruce realizes that it doesn’t have anything to do with the suit.

He sucks in a quick breath and tries to process what that means, but suddenly Tony's lips are hard against him—lips and tongue and that electric tingle. Surprise and pleasure conspire to sweep every thought from Bruce’s mind, and he can't do anything but return the kiss.

He honestly hasn’t even imagined kissing Tony Stark. Talk about off the table—it wasn’t even in the same room. But now Tony’s body is warm and heavy over his. Tony’s fingers slide over his neck, the electric tingle setting all Bruce’s nerves alight. He hasn’t felt anything this good in—

His sense returns and cuts off that particular train of thought, and he pushes Tony away. “Tony, stop. We have to figure out—”

Tony springs to his feet. “Right. Yeah.” He glances down at his hand, where the lines of electricity continue to dance. “That’s new.”

“Yeah,” Bruce agrees. “How do you feel?”

Tony blinks, and a slow smile crosses his face. “Good. I feel good. I feel—” The smile evaporates. “I feel like I just got played by a bratty little twit. JARVIS, get her location.”

“I have been unable to track Dr. Baker since her departure from Manhattan.”

“Unacceptable.” Tony makes it to one side of the room in three strides and rips a piece of foam padding away from the wall. A moment later he’s elbow deep in an access panel. “No way she’s untraceable,” he mutters, fiddling with something with sharp, quick movements of his hand. After a few seconds of intense concentration he curses. “Fucking satellites, never do as they’re told.”

“Sir,” JARVIS objects, “reminder of Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes’ displeasure on the last occasion on which you attempted to take control of a military satellite.”

“No fun, JARVIS, you are no fun. But you could be. Why didn’t I make you fun?” Bruce follows him and peers at what he’s doing—behind the wiring is a small terminal screen, and Tony’s fingers seem to be everywhere on it, shifting code around at an incredible speed while simultaneously doing something with the wires. “Nevermind,” Tony continues, “don’t answer that, you’re not fun yet.”

“Sir, I really must protest—” JARVIS’s voice ends abruptly.

Bruce puts a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Are you sure you want to do that? JARVIS is—” Bruce still isn’t totally clear on what JARVIS is, what rights JARVIS might reasonably be said to have, but Bruce’s skin crawls a little to watch whatever Tony’s up to.

Tony glances back at Bruce. “He’ll like being fun. I like being fun. You like being fun.” Tony grabs the front of Bruce’s shirt and pulls him close, kissing him again, and this time Bruce feels Tony’s hands gliding over his arms, his sides, and down, and Bruce is fairly sure that the tight electric tingle heading straight to his cock has nothing to do with Tony’s newfound condition.

In spite of everything, for an instant Bruce feels the pull of temptation, and wants very badly to give in, to see just how far Tony wants to take this. He can’t, of course. Even if Tony were in any condition to give consent—which he clearly is not—they have far more pressing things to attend to. Though pressing is not a great word choice there, as it serves to remind him that that is almost certainly Tony’s erection pressing against Bruce’s thigh, and if kissing was off the table and out of the room, this is in some whole other country. One which Bruce would very much like to visit.

But can’t. He pulls together his remaining self control and pushes Tony away again. “The serum is affecting you. We have to get you tested, find out what’s happening.”

Tony blows out a breath dismissively and gives an indignant little glare before returning to the access panel.

“JARVIS?” Bruce attempts. “Radiation readings?” Getting the room cleared is the first step to getting equipment brought in—the first step to figuring out what the serum did—the first step to finding out just how wrong things are with Tony.

“Hardly nothin’.” It’s JARVIS’s voice but not—the accent has shifted and the cadence is startlingly relaxed. “1.00057 times normal levels, nothin’ to worry about.”

Bruce sucks in a breath. “Tony, what did you do?”

“Only got as far as dialect, ported in some profiles, mixed them together a little.” His fingers continue to flicker over the access panel as he talks. “Figured keep the British vibe, or thereabouts,” he waves vaguely, “but go a little more punk rock and a little less butler. Voila. Fun.”

“Is he—” Bruce attempts, “can we trust his readings?”

“Already said, only changed the dialect, keep up.”

Bruce takes a long breath and considers the readings. Tony must have absorbed all the radiation, processed it through the alchemy of the serum or locked it away inside his body as Bruce had. He's got no idea if that's good news or bad, but it does make life a little easier. “JARVIS, tell Steve to bring in the physiological monitor.”

“Whatever ya need, Doc,” JARVIS confirms. Or, Bruce thinks it’s a confirmation anyway.

Tony turns, his fingers trailing handfuls of wire as he draws them out of the access point. “We don’t need it.” He leaves the wires dangling and moves to the suit to begin disassembling parts, his hands moving faster than Bruce can follow. “See?”

Bruce doesn’t see, but he’s never known much about the components of the Iron Man suit.

“Right, well, monitor.” He slaps the thing over his wrist. “Not much good without a display. Need a display. JARVIS!”

“Ain’t got any in here.”

Bruce shakes his head. JARVIS’s voice saying “ain’t” is impossibly disturbing.

“Should have been,” Tony objects. “Should be. Could be. Can be.” His mouth runs rapid fire, faster even than his usual babbling, and almost faster than Bruce can follow. He takes another part out of the suit and tosses it up and down in one hand as he returns to the access panel. “Multiphase lighting, got that right anyway, just need to put in a digital filter. No, haven’t got one of those. Wait, yes, I do have one of those—close enough.” He fiddles for another moment, and Bruce can’t even begin to follow this time, but suddenly a section of the wall lights up, showing blood pressure, heart rate, oxygen levels, respiration. All within acceptable parameters.

“Those are yours?”

Tony ignores the question and returns to the wiring. “Where was I— Right, satellites. Do we at least know which way she went? We’ve got to know that.”

Bruce shakes his head. “I don’t know. I think Clint and Natasha were tracking, but—“

“JARVIS! Patch them through. Wherever the hell they are. Gimme a visual.” He fiddles a little more, and two new displays come up, showing the hallway just on the other side of the door. Clint and Natasha, along with Coulson and Thor, huddle around a small screen, and Bruce doesn’t have to be able to make it out to know what they’re watching. “Only fair,” Tony continues. “They see us, we see them. Hi guys, miss me? Wanna help me hack into some government satellites and nail that bitch? Not in the sex way— not my type, and also, y’know—“ He makes a face and cuts himself off. “Nevermind.”

“Let’s just focus on ascertaining your status, Stark,” Coulson replies, without making any attempt to look into either camera. “We’ve done what we can on Baker, but it doesn’t look like we were able to track her.”

“Means you didn’t try hard enough.” Tony sends code flying around the little monitor again. “Need more satellites over here. Who needs Direct TV anyway? They should be living life, breathing fresh air, fucking their brains out. They’ll thank me for diverting those hunks of junk.”

Bruce swallows. He can’t tell if Tony’s really doing what he describes, but it seems more likely than not. “You can’t just— Tony, stop. You have to stop.”

Tony turns back towards him, and for an instant Bruce thinks he’s ready to slow down and talk, but then he darts around Bruce and heads for the electronics scrap heap. “Need more wire. Eight-gauge, forty amp—maybe fifty,” he mutters. “Should be able to shunt the manifold to the secondary processor and—”

Bruce reaches out and grabs one shoulder, then the other, holding him in place. "Tony. Stop."

Tony meets his eyes, and for an instant the manic energy evaporates, replaced by a flash of desperate fear. “I _can’t_ ,” he chokes out.

And then a twitch, a little shiver runs through his body, and tight cheer returns to his face, sparks dancing over his skin faster than before. He turns and Bruce doesn't even have time to draw a breath before he’s across the room again, disassembling something or other. “This is fine," Tony assures him in a bright, brittle tone that offers Bruce no reassurance whatsoever. "This is good. This is me, just— faster. No point in stopping, never been one for stopping anyway. Stopping’s boring. Way too busy for that. Things to see, people to do.”

Bruce takes a few careful steps towards Tony, grasping for any way to get some kind of handle on his condition.

Tony drops whatever he was working on and meets him halfway. “Like you. You are my number one person to do, you know that?” Tony grabs Bruce by the waist and pulls him close again.

Bruce tries to pull away, but Tony’s hands are all over him, his chest and ass and cock, which, much to his shame, stiffens almost immediately under Tony’s touch.

“You want this.” It sounds like an accusation on Tony’s lips.

Bruce actually pulls free this time. “I told you that we can’t.”

“You want it.”

“I— yes,” Bruce admits—there's not much point in lying. “But you’re not OK to do this, not right now. Not to mention we’ve got an audience.”

Tony’s grin nearly splits his face, and the shifting lines of light on his skin seem to intensify. “I’ve got no problem with that.” He examines Bruce’s face for a moment and reaches over to run a hand over the bulge in Bruce’s pants again, “and neither do you, apparently.”

“Tony.” Bruce manages to make his voice a warning. Truth to tell, if Tony were in his right mind, Bruce would be willing to trust that the others would have the decency to look away. Then again if Tony were in his right mind this wouldn't be happening. Even so, Tony’s hand over his cock sends little shock waves up and down his body and decimates his self control.

“You want this. You need this. How long’s it been, anyway?” Tony considers, then darts over to the access panel. A moment later reports and videos pop up on the wall, one after another in quick succession. It’s like “This Is Your Life,” if the show were a little more Orwellian. And occasionally pornographic. Surveillance feeds—mostly S.H.I.E.L.D.’s, Bruce assumes, though some of the older ones seem to be security footage from bars and motels. All of the videos run at high speed, and the reports scroll rapidly through reams of text. “I am guessing…” Tony whistles, “over six years.”

Bruce feels his face grow hot. It’s a petty thing to be upset about—he’s a grown man with nothing to prove, and he isn’t ashamed that he’s declined to pursue his own pleasures at risk to other people. But the way Tony examines his life feels invasive, like he’s prodding at the dark lonely spots inside of Bruce and finding them worthy of ridicule.

“Quite the dry spell, Bruce, how can I let you wait another minute?” He closes the distance to grasp at Bruce again, but this time Bruce’s embarrassment and annoyance join forces with his better angels, and he doesn’t hesitate to wrench both of Tony’s hands away.

“Tony. This is me saying no. Are you hearing me saying no?” Bruce waits for an answer, his heart frozen, his lungs tight. If Tony really isn’t in control, if he can’t _get_ control, then— This could be so much worse than he feared.

Tony doesn’t fight Bruce’s grip on his wrists, doesn’t try to move away, or to touch Bruce again either. After a long moment he gives a little jerk of a nod. “Yeah.”

Bruce loosens his grip and lets out a long breath.

Tony turns away again. “I hope to God you’ve at least got yourself some good sex toys. JARVIS, order Bruce something fun. Couple of dildos, a fleshlight, whatever looks good.”

“Yeah, will do,” JARVIS agrees.

Tony snorts. “Making you buy sex toys isn’t half as funny with that voice. Switch back.”

“With pleasure, Sir.”

“Now, where were we— Baker, right. Satellites should be syncing by now.” He finds another bit of machinery and starts wiring it into the access panel, hands moving faster than ever. “If I can just—“

But he doesn’t have a chance to say what he "just" needs to do, because suddenly his eyes flutter shut, his legs buckle, and he drops to the ground.

~

Natasha folds her arms tight against her chest, her eyes fixed on the small screen displaying Stark’s unconscious figure and Banner’s frantic one.

Stark doesn’t move, and the odd lights of his skin have gone dark, leaving him looking like his old self again.

None of them speak, but out of the corner of her eye she can see Rogers uncertainly studying the medical monitor he’s wheeled over. She’s pretty sure that Stark already replaced the thing with whatever he put together from his suit, but she isn’t completely sure, and she’s not inclined to break the tense silence to volunteer the opinion.

“He’s OK,” Banner finally confirms. “I need to run some tests, but his vitals are stable.”

Rogers lets out a long breath. “Good.” He pauses, and looks to Coulson before returning his gaze to the screen. “So, what do you recommend, Doctor?”

Banner glances around, eventually locating the camera that’s supplying their view, and looking directly at it when he speaks. “We should monitor, obviously. One of us should be with him, or observing him, at all times. I don’t know if he— sometimes he seemed to have control, and sometimes....“ Bruce trails off, apparently unable to finish the thought.

Natasha understands his reluctance. Even if it’s just sometimes that Stark loses self-control, the amount of damage he’s capable of is astronomical. There’s no obvious violence to what he does, but the potential—it makes the walking catastrophe of Banner’s alter ego look almost manageable. In the brief time he was awake he didn’t do any lasting harm, but he nearly diverted military satellites, and she has a feeling that Direct TV is going to be due for a very large cash settlement if they ever figure out what Stark did to their systems.

Maybe that was the worst case. But maybe it wasn’t.

And then the thing with Bruce. Now that it’s out in the open she curses herself for not seeing what was plainly already there between the two of them. She can only chalk it up to the numerous more pressing problems that have monopolized her attention of late. And that’s all well and good—though Stark might not be her top choice for a stabilizing influence for Banner, it does make a certain kind of sense—but now isn’t exactly the time for new entanglements. And the manic, desperate way Stark went after him— it was hard to watch. Then again, at least faced with Banner’s firm refusal Stark was able to master himself and really stop.

As signs go, it’s not much, but it’s something.

"We keep him confined," Rogers decides, "three man shifts, one inside with him, two at the door in case...” Rogers doesn’t finish.

“Is that truly necessary?” Thor asks, but he surveys their faces and gives a grim nod of acquiescence even before Cap answers.

“Someone has to actually watch what he’s doing. And if he gets out of the room—” Rogers shakes his head. “He’s fast, and right now I don’t think we can rely on JARVIS for communications.” He lets out a long, tired breath. “If he gets out, a two-man team can at least make sure somebody knows about it.” He shrugs a little and tries to lighten his expression. “Things will be clearer in a couple of days and we can go from there."

On the screen, Banner keeps his fingers to Stark's pulse, and this time he doesn’t turn to make his face visible to the camera when he speaks. "We should move him."

"The gym’s the most secure room we’ve got," Rogers objects.

"For physical force, it is. But that isn't the issue here—I don't think Tony's any stronger than he used to be. He can do as much damage from here as from anywhere if—” Bruce shakes his head and slides his finger off Stark’s neck, the gesture just shy of unprofessional. “Might as well put him somewhere with, well, a bathroom, to start.”

Rogers nods. “OK. So where to?”

“The lab would be ideal,” Banner notes, but even though he can’t see the rest of them, he clearly knows the reaction that suggestion would elicit. “But no, not a great idea just now. If he could hijack satellites from the gym—”

“None of us want to know what he’d come up with in the lab,” Coulson concludes.

Rogers nods in fervent agreement, and Natasha has to admit she doesn’t disagree.

“His room?” Banner suggests.

Rogers starts to nod but then pauses, his mouth slightly open. “Something without any computers would be good, right? Keep him— well, just until we know he can keep himself out of trouble.”

“As much as he ever did,” Coulson adds, his light tone impressively convincing for all that she’s sure it’s forced. “No computers isn’t a bad idea, but it’s a tall order for Stark Tower.”

“My room is a— well, it was a Zen garden. I don’t think there are any computers in there. Not unless they’re hidden in the walls anyway.”

Coulson nods. “Might slow him down if he gets it into his head to start commandeering air traffic controls and nuclear launch codes.”

“Might drive him nuts,” Banner suggests, regret in his voice, but he takes a breath and nods. “Yeah, probably not a bad idea. To start.”

Rogers nods. “I’ll go clear out, get the room ready for him.” Coulson nods, and Rogers disappears down the hall.

Coulson looks to the rest of them. “Rogers can take first watch outside—Romanoff, you’ll join him.” She nods. “Doctor Banner, I trust you’ll take the first shift watching him?”

Banner absently agrees to that, and starts giving orders on the equipment he needs from the lab. It takes less than half an hour to set up Rogers’ room as a makeshift ward—just what kind of ward they’re going for, Natasha thinks, is best left unspecified. Twenty minutes after that she sits in the hall opposite Rogers, ready for a long watch.

Prolonged stretches of waiting she can handle—spy movies to the contrary notwithstanding, the ability to wait patiently is one of the primary skills of an intelligence operative, and it’s one she’s always been good at.

Then again, she’s rarely had a mission that strained her nerves the way this one does.

Rogers eyes her warily, as if he’d just as well pass the time companionably, chatting like friends, but isn’t sure how she’d take an overture. Honestly she isn’t sure how she’d take one either.

In her mind she reviews Stark’s behavior, the strange electricity that runs along his skin, the fear in his voice—covered up most of the time but laid bare in that desperate, troubling _I can’t._ She thinks of Baker’s strategy, the expert way she played on Stark’s impulses, the unhinged anger fueling her vendetta. It’s a lot to process and she needs the time. She’s not really inclined to make small talk.

But she can do it anyway. All she needs to do is slip on one of the dozens of identities she’s worn over the years. Not entirely, not enough that he’ll notice, but just enough that she can keep up a friendly conversation while entertaining her own thoughts and fears in the privacy of her own head.

Natalie, she decides. Steve will like Natalie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I’m starting to realize that I _may_ have overestimated my ability to hook Bruce and Tony up and keep the fic under an “E” rating… Hmm. :-/


	11. That Which Does Not Kill Us (can go either way, really)

Tony wakes with a start. Assesses. Soft bed, warm room, wood floors, white walls, thirty-seven point one six one two one six etcetera square meters. Not his bedroom.

Not the Hulk room.

Not the roof.

One occupant, aside from himself—Bruce, his pencil busy on paper, scribbling scribbling. Tony can just make out the equations Bruce’s pencil leaves behind, charting neural firing rates and trying to force them into some kind of larger model of corticothalamic dynamics. Now there’s something worth his attention.

He sits up. A surge of energy prickles through him, itchy and exhilarating, and he has to do something with it. _Has to_ like he has to breathe, or more—like the blood has to keep pumping through his veins, like his heart has to keep beating, he has to be _doing_ something.

He's out of bed before Bruce looks up, and plucks the papers away from him before he can turn around. Tony lets his eyes flit over the first page. “Good, good, right,” he mutters as he scans through the equations. “No.” He snatches the pencil out of Bruce’s hand and crosses out the last couple of lines, replacing them with his own clearly superior versions, before a flicker of… _something_ catches his eye.

He lets the paper and pencil fall and moves to the other side of the room. His hands press against the wall, and he can feel electricity coursing through it, snaking along beneath the paper and sheetrock, inside of the wires that constrain, limit, confine that crackling power. Other, softer sensations follow it, the weaker pulses that dance along with the raw electricity, entwining and separating, each to its purpose. He could trace their patterns on the papery finish of the wall, and for a moment he wants to do just that. They’re beautiful.

"Tony?" Bruce's voice. Concerned—so concerned, and conciliatory. And afraid.

Tony turns, places a hand on Bruce’s arm and feels electricity coursing through him too—the miniscule bursts of nerves processing their little chain reactions, passing information, sending orders, telling stories.

It’s new and it’s shiny and it’s fascinating. He’s been half-blind all his life, and now he can _see_. But he can’t stop and look, because his heart still pounds in his ears, telling him to move move move move.

He casts his eyes around the room and they alight on Bruce’s notes again. Behind the pages of new equations he finds print outs of radiation, blood composition, brain scans, nerve reactions. “Busy busy busy.” He moves away from Bruce to look them over, shuffling through the papers and taking in their contents in a matter of seconds. “You’ve been busy.”

“Yeah,” Bruce agrees. “You were unconscious for a couple of hours. I ran some tests.” Did he always speak so slowly? It’s hard to follow him—he takes too long between words and there are so many other things to think about. “I’d like to run them again now that you’re up.”

Tony frowns at one of the pages of readings. “I wasn’t just passed out. Slowed neurological function. Minimal responses to stimuli. Depressed reactions of the reticular formation.”

“Right,” Bruce agrees, and as he speaks the stubble along his jaw calls out for Tony’s attention. Tony moves closer and only at the last minute stops himself from pressing his lips against Bruce’s jawline to see how it feels. Bruce continues, slow as molasses, and Tony starts to fold one of the pieces of paper and tries to listen. “I’m guessing if I did the readings now it would be the opposite. Sound right?”

Tony nods and launches the paper plane he’s made—it glides neatly to the other side of the room. Tony’s hands work on another scrap, mind running through aerodynamic calculations, trying to improve the design. “Yes. Right. Good work. Run your tests.” He sends the second airplane following the first. It flies with a more graceful arc, and makes a softer landing just shy of the door.

Bruce speaks to JARVIS, but he’s still slow, so slow, and Tony can’t bring himself to attend to the readings he’s ordering JARVIS to take.

Tony glances around again instead and finally recognizes the room—with the sand and rocks piled in corners it looks almost like an ordinary bedroom, which is a shame. The visual of Rogers trying to live here is funnier with the sand all over everywhere. “JARVIS, order more sand. Definitely not enough sand.”

“Yes, Sir,” JARVIS agrees, but with distaste in his voice, and Tony’s fingers itch to find a control panel and do something about it. But there isn’t one, anywhere in the room—even the tests Bruce is running must all use the sensors JARVIS hides in the ceiling.

“Why’d you stick me here?” he asks, as if he doesn’t already know the answer. He moves to the corner with the rocks and sand and spreads some out to make a smooth expanse of the pale yellow powder.

Bruce hedges—nervous. “We, uh, figured you could use someplace restful.” Not just nervous. Sad too, and that feels wrong, makes Tony sad as well. Sad is a strange sensation, too slow for the way his nerves sparkle, and he shakes it off.

“Figured I shouldn’t get my hands on any naughty toys,” he corrects. “Everybody pissy about those satellites? I thought it was just Rhodey with a stick up his ass about that.” His hands move in the sand, tracing patterns, drawing out recursive sequences. It’s easier this way—while his hands stay busy he can listen to Bruce’s reply.

“No, I think there are any number of people who consider diverting satellites to be a concern. The Air Force in particular.”

Tony scoffs. “Done it before—nobody noticed.”

“I thought Rhodey noticed.”

He runs out of space and starts smoothing out more sand. “My mistake. Told him about it. Should have know he wouldn’t get the joke. Military guys—they get touchy when you mess with their stuff.”

Bruce gives a tiny flinch, and even halfway across the room, Tony can feel his nerves light up—can practically _see_ them, like the electrochemical signals are clearer, fiercer than ever.

And fast as he is, it still takes him a second to get the reason for Bruce’s reaction. 

He shatters a little when he does. His jaw clenches and he’s on his feet without even thinking about it, one hand closing around Bruce’s wrist. “You weren’t their ‘stuff,’” he spits, “you were never their ‘stuff.’” He releases Bruce, paces away—the room is too small and he reaches the other side far too fast, pivots and crosses again. “JARVIS, where is General Thaddeus Ross right now?”

“General Ross is presently at Fort Johnson, Florida.”

“Fort Johnson, “ he mutters. “What do we have there….” He glances up at Bruce. “Always said I’d get all the old Stark weapons out of the wrong hands. His hands are definitely wrong. JARVIS, protocol Sigma-Three-Fiv—“

“Tony. Stop.” And then Bruce’s hand is on his shoulder, squeezing hard, and when Tony looks at him again—feels at him? English doesn’t have the words for this—the too-bright fire of his nerves has faded to its normal rhythm.

Tony inhales sharply as he makes the connection. “The other guy— He was—“

Bruce blinks. “Uh, yeah. How— You could tell?”

“You got all…“ he searches for the right word, finds it: “bright.” He moves away, back to the sand, sketches out a fascinating branching pattern as he speaks. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t.“

Tony shakes his head. “Must’ve.”

Bruce crouches next to him. “Tony, the other guy gets riled up over something or other a few dozen times on a good day. That was nothing.”

Tony turns his head sharply. “Your whole body was… bright,” he repeats, unable to come up with any better way to put it.

Bruce takes a breath. “I don’t know what that means.” He shakes his head and a tiny smile forms on his lips. “What is this _like_ for you?”

There's too much. He can't express it, can't boil it down and force it into petty words. "I can feel things. Energy, when it's—" He moves one hand away from the patterns he's working out in the sand to gesture vaguely. "I can see the electricity in the wires in the walls, and all the tiny little impulses in all your nerve fibers, and—" All of a sudden the patterns aren't enough—the calculations are too easy and he needs more, faster, and even in his own head he can’t articulate why or what it is that he actually wants. He springs up and paces the room again. "Everything is slow, and I can't stop and there isn’t enough of—“ He still doesn’t know what he’s trying to say. “Anything. There isn’t enough of anything and I can’t slow down and there isn’t anything I can _do_.”

His skin prickles and he can see that the lights on his skin are brighter, faster, and his heart beats so hard that it feels like it’s going to shatter.

He feels Bruce’s hands on his shoulders again, both of them this time, and suddenly he’s face to face with Bruce, whose eyes shimmer with worry. “Can you breathe with me?” he asks.

Tony blinks. New age bullshit. He figured Bruce went in for that kind of crap. No, that’s not fair. He doesn’t really, not usually—once in the lab Tony suggested that Bruce locate his chakras and Bruce offered to do it, laughing, but said he’d never found them to be any more use than the grounding rituals or scented oils, and less than the herbal teas, which at least tasted good.

The breathing, though, Bruce is obviously all about the breathing, all kinds of special rhythms and patterns and hey, whatever works for him Tony can’t argue with, but it’s a little much to try to actually humor him right now, because of all the things he needs needs needs to be doing, humoring is not among them.

So it’s a credit to just how persuasive those eyes are that Tony doesn’t look away, and when Bruce draws in a breath, he does too, and tries to focus on it.

There actually is a lot to breathing. He can feel the soft sensation of his breath flowing in, down his windpipe and into his lungs. His chest lifts and the air runs in and in and then he holds and holds. He watches Bruce’s lips and throat and starts to wonder if he’s planning on holding this breath forever, but then he sees Bruce’s chest start to deflate and lets his own breath out.

They do it again, and Tony struggles to match his slow rhythm, but he does it, he _can_ do it, which is more than he would have guessed. His heartbeat slows to something a little less frantic, and trying to focus on just Bruce isn’t actively painful anymore.

Bruce still looks shaken, tired, edgy, and Tony remembers with a little surge of shame how he accosted him, teased him. Worry lines Bruce’s eyes, and his lips press together in a tense line. 

In spite of the shame, Tony wishes again that he could kiss those lips. Remembers how they felt under his own, the heady moment when Bruce definitely, unmistakably kissed back. He feels a surge that isn’t so little, and definitely isn’t shame.

But Bruce said they couldn’t, and even though half the cells in Tony’s body still scream out that he wants wants wants and has to just take take take take, he keeps his lips to himself and draws another slow breath instead.

~

The couch that Thor single-handedly carried out to the hallway is really too comfortable for sentry work. After the excitement of the morning, the slow grid of guard duty has lulled Steve into a vague stupor, and he knows he has to move in order to stay alert.

For the first couple of hours, Romanoff chatted pleasantly, telling slightly flirtatious jokes and eliciting more stories about his time in the war than he’s told since he went down in the ice. It didn’t take him long to feel a little bit manipulated—the questions were obviously carefully designed to put him at his ease—but honestly he couldn’t bring himself to mind all that much.

A few hours in, though, he exhausted all the stories he was willing to tell, and found himself relieved when she turned her attention to the tablet Agent Coulson had handed off, and left him to his thoughts.

But by now he’s had more than enough time to think. He stands and walks a little ways up the hall, turns and paces back, and glances at Romanoff to see if she’s got a problem with it. If she does, she gives no indication, and he allows himself a few more turns before he drops and starts a set of push-ups.

His arms haven’t even begun to tire when he hears more than sees Romanoff’s head turn sharply, and he jumps to his feet to see what she’s looking at.

Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes strides down the hall, clad in a jumpsuit much like the one Stark wears under his armor, a look of dread on his face.

“Sir,” Steve greets him. Technically Steve isn’t actually enlisted any longer, and neither of them are on duty or in uniform anyway, but in Steve’s experience too much respect beats too little every time.

Rhodes’ face relaxes into what’s almost a smile. “There is no way I outrank Captain America.” He offers a hand and Steve shakes it. “It’s an honor, Captain.” He turns to Romanoff, and he actually does smile a little when he speaks to her. “Good to see you again, Agent Romanoff.”

She smiles back, a little sly and not at all displeased. “And you, Colonel Rhodes.”

He glances at the door, and the grim mask descends over his face again. “Is he—?”

“Dr. Banner thinks he’s going to be OK. But we’re…” Steve glances down. “We need to keep him contained and under observation until we know he won’t… do anything destructive.”

Rhodes frowns, but relief has allowed a little sparkle to creep into his eyes. “You… did meet him before this, right? ‘Cause I’ve known Tony a long time, and there’s never been a moment when I knew he wasn’t going to do anything destructive. Hoped, often, but knew…?” He shakes his head like he’s trying to make it a joke, but isn’t at all sure he’s succeeding.

“It’s a little different now,” Romanoff notes, her voice full of regret.

Rhodes nods at that, and gestures at the door. “Can I—?”

Steve nods. “Better leave your phone out here, though, and your computer if you’ve got one.”

Rhodes frowns again, but nods. He fishes a StarkPhone out of his pocket and hands it to Romanoff before palming the door open and disappearing inside.

Steve sits again and glances at Natasha. “So… you and Colonel Rhodes?”

She regards him blandly. “What about us?”

He’s never been particularly good at navigating gossip. Generally he stays out of it when he can, but he’s pretty sure that attitude keeps him more distant from his team—here and at S.H.I.E.L.D. too—than he’d like to be. The others have grown more and more relaxed around one another, but Clint’s the only one who seems relaxed around him, and Romanoff isn’t likely to be won over by his charming ineptitude in the kitchen.

Then again, judging by the expression on her face, she isn’t all that likely to be won over by his prying into her personal life either.

“Sorry. None of my business.”

But then, to his surprise, she lets out a breath and gives him a small smile. “We just had the one night,” she tells him softly. “Just a little fun between—“ she shrugs, doesn’t say ‘friends,’ and as far as Steve knows today is only the second time she’s laid eyes on him, so he can see why.

“You wish it was more?” he asks quietly.

She shrugs again. “It doesn’t matter.”

He’s pretty sure that’s a yes, and he wonders if her view of the available options would be different if it weren’t for the serum. He bites back the impulse to tell her not to wait. His regrets are his own, and they won't do her any good.

She returns her attention to her tablet, and curses softly.

“Anything I should know about?”

She hesitates. “Nothing definitive. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s picking up increased chatter from a lot of the guys we’re keeping an eye on. No sign that it’s tied to Baker, or to any of the major threats we monitor. But… it’s unusual.”

Steve fishes his own tablet out of his knapsack. He’s not generally involved in investigations and covert ops, so he doesn’t get all the intel that Coulson does, but as nominal team leader he gets a fair amount of whatever’s deemed relevant to the Initiative.

All his screen shows so far is a memo urging heightened vigilance. He can’t suppress a little snort of irritation. As if it were possible to be on higher alert than they are already. “What do you make of it?”

She shrugs. “Could be nothing—a coincidence. But a lot of unconnected malcontents and crackpots happen to be getting agitated at the same time that Baker’s up to… whatever she’s up to….” Natasha trails off. “I don’t like it.”

Steve nods. He doesn’t disagree.

They sit in tense, frustrated silence until Rhodes emerges.

“How is he?” Steve asks.

Rhodes shifts from foot to foot for a moment, and Steve can practically see him weighing his loyalties. Finally he seems to relax a little, and Steve hopes he’s decided that being honest with them isn’t any kind of betrayal to Stark. “He’s…“ Rhodes gives a little chuckle, “…himself.” He cocks his head to one side. “But… more so.”

Steve laughs a little a little at that, but tries to answer earnestly. “That’s good, right?”

Rhodes grimaces, as if he’d rather not answer that question, but then his face relaxes again into a friendly smile. “Yeah, I think it’s good. For him, anyway. For the rest of us—God help us all.”

Steve laughs at that, though he isn’t entirely sure it’s a joke. He glances over to Romanoff, who sits ramrod straight and doesn’t let a smile touch her lips.

Rhodes seems to notice too, because he watches her with an uncertain look on his face. “He really is OK. Same guy I met in college.” Rhodes pauses as if a thought has occurred to him. “Actually, he’s a lot like he was at that age. Long on smarts, maybe a little short on self control. Or— no. That’s the rap he always gets. It’s just— sometimes he moves too fast for consequences to catch up.”

Romanoff doesn’t seem the least bit mollified by the further explanation, and Rhodes glances down and away. “Anyway, I need to—“ He doesn’t specify what he needs to do; just jerks his head in the general direction of the exit.

Steve nods, and Rhodes returns the gesture. “Give me a buzz if you need anything,” he tells them both, and leaves.

~

The sand is the first thing that Phil notices when he enters Stark’s room to relieve Banner. It’s everywhere, again, even though Rogers had it all swept to one corner just that morning.

The second thing that Phil notices is also the sand—specifically the intricate patterns traced on its surface. They’re beautiful. Incredibly so. They put him in mind of monks in some unspecified corner of the globe that he knows less about than he ought to. Stark has been in here for twelve hours, and he was unconscious for probably half of that—the idea that he’s had time to make something like this is… unsettling.

Phil pulls himself together and turns to Banner, who’s perched on a chair near the entrance, in the last remaining patch of bare hardwood floor. “What’s his condition?”

Banner regards him evenly, and then looks over at Stark, who’s crouched in the nearest corner, making minute adjustments to the pattern there. “You want to field that one, Tony?”

Stark looks up, and Phil suppresses a flinch when lights flicker over his face, fingers of it touching his throat and his hands too. “Accelerated corticothalamic function,” Stark answers, as if that’s an actual explanation. “You’ll like this one, Agent. I’m fast. And not in the sexual sense.” He grins, and Phil thinks that the lights on his skin actually intensify. “Not _just_ in the sexual sense.”

Phil rolls his eyes, attempting to convey just how little he’s impressed by this new and dubiously improved Tony Stark. But the truth is he’s relieved that Stark’s usual sense of humor—irritating as it may be—is more or less intact. It’s probably a good sign.

“Fine,” Stark huffs, his focus seemingly back on the sand under his fingers, “I can do this the boring way. My nerves, my brain, the whole shebang moves faster than it used to. Or— most of the time it does. Speed’s variable, looks like maybe I crash if I run hot too long.”

“And… is that dangerous?”

“No, it’s nothing—just temporarily deceleration of nervous system function, more a deep sleep than a coma. Resolves itself naturally—no true love’s kiss required.” Stark’s leers in Banner’s direction. “Not that I’d object to some making out.”

Banner’s eyes flick over to Stark and fix on his face for just an instant longer than they should. But then his jaw clenches as he swallows. “The deceleration _would_ be an issue if you were driving, or, say, piloting a suit of armor at thirty thousand feet,” he notes.

Stark glares at the sand and starts etching new patterns over the old. “Not a problem. I’ll build fail-safes into the suit—easy.”

Phil wonders if it’s really that simple, but that’s an issue for another day. “Dr. Banner, if you’d like to go get some rest—?”

Banner nods absently, and Phil has a feeling that when he does leave, he isn’t headed for his bed. “Tony, do you need anything before I go?”

Stark doesn’t look up. “Say hi to the lab for me. Tell it I miss it terribly and will be back as soon as the bad men let me.”

Banner flinches a little, and leaves without answering.

Phil settles into the chair Banner just vacated—it’s the only one in the remaining patch of visible floor, and while he hasn’t got the faintest idea what Stark’s doing with all that sand, he hesitates to disturb it.

He just watches for a while, as Stark sketches out ever more complicated patterns, his hand moving almost faster than Phil can follow.

“Give me an update,” Stark finally demands. “Any luck on Baker?”

Phil sighs. “We’re monitoring all the video feeds we can get our hands on, and we’re still trying to trace back her signal from the attack on Malibu, but so far we haven’t gotten anywhere.”

Stark doesn’t look up from what he’s doing. “Give me five minutes with your computers—I’ll get you somewhere.”

“Maybe later, Stark. For now—“

Stark does look up then. “For now I’m a test subject, with my own personal round the clock guard and nothing whatsoever to do.” He stands and paces across the room, trampling the sand underfoot as he moves back and forth with an agitated stride. “Fuck it, I’ll do it without a damned computer. JARVIS—“ He starts rattling off what sounds vaguely like some kind of computer code, fast enough that Phil can’t make out the words, if they even are words.

Five minutes later, Stark’s voice hasn’t slowed, and he’s paced every inch of the room, obliterating all his designs in the sand. If anything his speed—walking and talking both—only increase as he continues. He’s just short of running when Barton speaks up over the com. “Sir, Ms. Potts is here to see Tony, if he’s up for a visit.” Phil opens his mouth to tell her to come in, but before he manages it, Barton continues. “Correction—Ms. Potts is here to see Tony whether he’s up for it or not.”

“Tell her to come on in.”

The door opens a second later and she steps through. Stark stops in his tracks and takes a very long deep breath before looking up at her and speaking at more or less his normal pace. “Took you long enough. It’s been days since…” he trails off.

Phil frowns at that, and sees Pepper blink in surprise. “It’s been fourteen hours,” she corrects him, “and I was in Dubai. It’s a very long flight from Dubai, Tony, especially when—“ she stops and stares as a flicker of electricity passed over his face. “They— Phil told me that— but—“ She shakes her head. “You’re OK?”

“I’m OK. I’m good.” He manages to look at her steadily, though his fingers flicker at his sides in some pattern that means nothing to Phil.

Pepper crosses the room to embrace him, and he returns the gesture, encircling her shoulder with one arm. 

“I really am fine.”

She pulls away to look at him. “You’re never going to stop scaring me like this, are you?”

A sad little smile crosses his face. “Probably not. You weren’t wrong about that.”

She nods. “But you’re OK.” It’s not a question this time, though it sounds a little like she’s trying to convince herself. “And they’re… taking care of you.”

Stark shoots Phil a dark look over her shoulder, but when he turns back to Pepper the anger is gone from his face. “Yeah.”

They break apart, and Stark’s fingers go back to their rapid fidgeting.

“So this woman—you don’t know where she’s gone?”

He shakes his head. 

“But you’re going to find her and take her out?”

A nasty grin crosses his face. “Damn right.”

“Good.” Her voice is nearly as vicious as Stark’s grin. She glances down and then back up at Tony, and continues in her usual businesslike tone. “I’ve cancelled the rest of my meetings in Dubai. I’m going to stay and work out of the Tower this week. So if there’s anything you need—“

He nods. “Thanks Pep. I should, uh—“

“Get some rest.” She squeezes his shoulder in a fond gesture, gives Phil a tired smile, and leaves.

Stark doesn’t rest, though. He returns to dictating to JARVIS, back up to an incomprehensible speed in moments. Periodically he casts a dark look at Phil, and after twenty minutes he breaks off the string of code. “This would be much faster if I had a computer,” he complains, staring off into space and apparently making some kind of calculation on his fingers. “I’m starting from fucking scratch over here.”

“There’ll be plenty of time for that later, Stark. We just need to figure out your situation.”

Suddenly Stark’s full attention focuses on Phil, and the arcs of light playing over his skin shine brighter, move faster. “My _situation_ is that I’m the same guy I always was. Just a little faster now. Waiting around isn’t going to change anything—you trust me or you don’t.”

Phil looks away. “Give us a little time, OK? We do trust you, but we need some time to adjust.”

Stark shoots him another dark look and turns away, grabbing a pencil and a handful of journals off the desk as he goes. He settles on the bed and starts reading through the magazines, scribbling what Phil can only assume are elaborations or corrections of the articles.

They sit in silence for long enough that Phil peruses the accumulation of papers and books on the desk himself. He’s left all his electronics outside, and it’s been so long since he’s worked on paper that he didn’t have anything to bring in with him. He’s just discovered a lone novel among the journals and reference books when Barton’s voice interrupts again. 

“Sir, we’ve got a situation. Our tech guys are reporting an attempted digital security breach on the Debar Mountain compound.”

Phil’s blood freezes, and Stark’s gaze fixes on him. “Which one’s—“

“Research facility. Radiological work, among other things.”

“Get me a computer. Now.”

Phil takes an instant to consider, and moves a hand to his earpiece. “Barton, get my laptop in here.” He glances up at Stark. “Will that be good enough?”

Light dances across Stark’s face as he grins. He stretches his arms in front of him and cracks his knuckles. “Yeah, this is gonna be fun.”

Barton enters a moment later. His eyes fix on Stark—on the lines of energy that dance over his skin and the feral grin on his face. After an instant’s hesitation and a glance at Phil, he holds out the computer.

Stark darts forward to snatch it out of Clint’s hand, and his attention narrows to a tight focus on the screen. He looks at the thing like it’s water in a desert, and his fingers dance over it faster than Phil would have thought possible.

Phil puts a hand to his com and opens a line to Hill. “We’ve got Stark backing up our techs on the Debar Mountain firewall. What’s the status?”

“No signs of any physical presence,” she answers, her voice tight but not panicked. “We think it’s Baker, and we think she’s trying to overload some of the gamma research equipment.”

“Have you got it powered down yet?”

“Negative. Apparently it can’t be shut down or disconnected without going through procedure. It’s going to take a few more minutes.”

Phil looks up at Stark. “Can you buy us a few minutes?”

“I can do better than that.”

“Stark’s on it,” Phil relays, and shuts off the com. He glances over at Barton, who shifts from one foot to the other, his eyes fixed on Stark.

“So… is he OK?” Barton asks.

Stark answers for himself, his focus still on the laptop. “Peachy. I am officially peachy.” He holds the computer up a little without shifting his attention from its screen. “And all the peachier for this.”

Phil looks up at Barton. “How about you?”

Barton’s eyes don’t leave Stark. “I’m fine, Sir.”

Phil winces a little at the formality. But if Barton doesn’t want to talk, that’s his choice. It isn’t really the time anyway.

Stark lets out a sudden string of curses, and his skin glows with multiplying lines of light.

“Report,” Phil tells him, and apparently Stark is too distracted by his work to even object to the order.

“She’s got— Goddamnit, where the hell is she getting that kind of processing power,” he mutters. “She must have a botnet the size of—” He cuts off, either disinterested in making the estimate or unable to do it while he works.

“What do you need?”

“Nothing. I’m on it. Just need to tweak S.I.’s systems, squeeze a little more speed out of them. Not a problem.” Tongues of electricity sketch a frenzied dance across his face, his arms, every visible part of his skin. His hands are a blur over the keyboard, and suddenly the room’s lights flicker and die. “Not a problem,” Stark repeats. “More power requires more power. Gotta get it from somewhere.”

Phil glances over to Barton, who’s dimly visible in the light shining from Stark’s body. Baron gives him a curt nod, and Phil’s sure he’s putting everything he can muster into looking unfazed.

Suddenly, outside the window, the lights from nearby buildings flicker and die too.

“Stark,” Phil tries to keep his voice steady, “what are you doing?”

“Overclocking our servers by about five thousand percent. Building’s arc reactor isn’t enough—need to draw more power to keep them running.”

“There are hospitals nearby.”

“Right, yes, I know that.” 

Out the window, one building’s lights return, and Phil swallows hard. “You can’t do this. They only need another minute and the facility will be offline.”

“I am so not letting this bitch win.” His hands don’t slow, and talking doesn’t seem to take away from his ability to keep working in the slightest. “I figure her plan was fifty percent blow shit up and fifty percent see if I’m still in play. Already tipped my hand that I’m still kicking, so I’m damned well going to teach her not to fuck with me again.”

Another minute passes, and Phil has to concentrate to keep from holding his breath. His com beeps for his attention and his hand flies to his ear.

Hill’s voice comes through, heavy with relief. “We’re clear. Everything critical is offline, and the tech guys tell me Stark fended off Baker’s attack.”

Phil lets out a long breath. “Thanks for the update.” He looks up at Stark, who hasn’t slowed. If anything, the lights on his skin are more frenzied, the look in his eyes more intense. “Hill tells me the situation’s been resolved,” Phil assures him. “You can stop now.”

“The hell I can.” His fingers move faster still over the screen. “It’s offense time—I’m going to find wherever she’s jacked in and take out everything she’s—“ But he does stop then. Stops suddenly and completely. The lights disappear from his skin and he slumps over on the bed like a marionette with its strings cut.

“JARVIS, vitals.”

“Mr. Stark’s vitals are within expected parameters.”

Phil takes a breath. “Can you— Can you restore the city’s power grid, undo whatever Stark did to the servers?”

JARVIS confirms, and a moment later the nearby buildings light up again, as does their room. Phil swallows.

After a long moment, Barton breaks the silence. “Well. That was something.” He pauses. “Baker figured me and Nat would be at Debar.”

“If things had gone a different way on the helicarrier, she might have been right.” 

Barton nods. “Yeah.”

Phil searches his features for fear, and it’s there, to be sure. But the emotion shining strongest on Barton’s face is a hard kind of determination. Phil’s seen that expression before, and it’s never failed to get results. “How are you doing now?” he asks quietly.

“Peachy, Sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a little afraid someone is going to notice my outrageous abuse of “science“ and take away my wikipedia privileges.
> 
> (Also, just want to be clear that _Tony_ is calling chakras "new age bullshit." I am not.)


	12. A Brighter Day (make it last)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so I failed at keeping this an “M.” …sorry?

Natasha doesn’t sleep after Baker’s early morning assault on the radiological research facility. While it was in progress she did the best she could to monitor the attack and Stark’s defense, but Stark moved so fast she couldn't follow him. The active fight over, she does the best she can to track down any trails Baker might have left, but it comes to nothing long before it’s time for her shift outside Stark’s door.

For most of the day she and Steve sit in silence, reviewing intel on their tablets, reading books, and, in his case, sketching bits and pieces of landscapes and buildings and faces. All of places and people long gone, she supposes. She thinks of trying to say something consoling, but in the end leaves him to his thoughts. 

The quiet between them is easier today, broken here and there by brief conversations that don’t touch on anything she’d rather not discuss. His solid presence calms her nerves, and she’s surprised to find that she prefers it to sitting the watch alone.

Still, Thor and Clint are a welcome sight when they arrive to take the next shift. There are circles under Clint's eyes, and his fingers beat out a tense rhythm against his thigh, but honestly he looks better than she expected. Better than she does, she's sure.

He gives her a smile, and in its tight concern she can see that she's right—she must look like hell. “There’s pie,” he offers.

That brings a little smile to her lips. She’s often wondered what drives him to the kitchen in times of stress. Over the years she’s come up with a number of theories, but truthfully she doesn’t much care, as long as it works for him. “Blackberry?” she asks, letting the question carry a hint of playful demand.

“Blackberry,” he confirms.

She turns to Steve. “You don’t want to miss this, Cap.”

His eyes dart between the two of them, and he produces a genuine smile of his own. “I’m sure. Save me a piece, will you? I want to grab an hour in the gym,”

“Sure thing.” She claps Clint on the shoulder and gives Thor a nod. 

Banner emerges from Stark’s room just as she starts down the hallway, and in spite of herself she pauses to let him catch up. They walk a few paces together before she speaks. “How's Stark doing, Doc?”

“Physiologically, he’s fine. He spent most of the morning passed out, but his control is getting better, and I think he's finding a... an in-between mode, more like his old self." Banner glances away, and his tone shifts, turning businesslike. "As soon as the press gets a look at him he’s going to have a media headache to deal with, but the world’s getting bigger. I don’t think it’s anything he can’t cope with.”

“Will he—” She swallows. “Just _how_ fine is he, physiologically?”

Banner gives her a sidelong glance, like he’s trying to decide what she’s asking. She shakes her head—she isn’t in the mood to ask outright.

He pauses when they reach the living room, looks at the doors to the lab, and back at her with solemn eyes that tell her that he knows what she was asking after all. “There’s no reason to think that this— Other than the electrical signals his readings are more or less normal,” he tells her. But he shrugs, tired and resigned. “Then again, other than the radioactive blood, so are mine. We are so far off the map here. But I doubt that he—” He looks up at her, and guilt wars with aching regret in his face. “I doubt he’s like me.”

That could mean all kinds of things, but she knows what he’s trying to say. There’s no reason to think Stark can’t die. No reason to think that of any of them. Except Bruce. Her body nearly shudders, with relief for herself or with horror for him she isn’t sure. But either way she keeps herself still.

He turns away. “I should get back to work. I haven’t gotten through all the data on Tony yet, and they could still tell us something.”

She reaches out to give his shoulder a quick squeeze. “Thanks, Doc.”

He nods and disappears into the lab, and she slips through the kitchen door. 

She stops the moment she passes the threshold. She expected the room to be clear, but Pepper sits at the table, her heels discarded on the floor, and her feet tucked under her on the chair. Pepper glances up from the laptop in front of her. “Agent Romanoff.”

“Ms. Potts,” Natasha returns with a smile. “I’m told there’s a pie.”

“There _were_ two, but then Thor and Coulson came through.” Pepper gestures at a plate next to her computer, bearing telltale smears of deep purple. “I’ve already availed myself—Agent Barton’s quite the baker.”

Natasha nods and cuts herself a slice from the remaining pie. She fishes a fork out of the drawer and settles at the table, enjoying the pastry in neat little bites. “You’re here to keep an eye on Stark?”

Pepper shrugs. “Old habits die hard. And he’s— he’s going to need some help. God knows what the press is going to make of all this when they get wind, but I’m pretty sure it’s going to end up being my problem.” She closes the laptop. “That’s why I’m in New York, but it isn’t why I’m here.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, but declines to ask the obvious question.

“How are you holding up?”

Natasha pauses. Pepper knows that she isn’t Natalie. But it’s hard for civilians to really get that, sometimes. Hell, it can be hard enough for trained operatives. Even for her, sitting opposite Pepper, it’s a little hard not slide into the rhythms they so quickly established while she was undercover. When she says “I’m doing fine,” it’s Natalie's answer as much as it is her own.

Pepper’s eyes narrow. “I know that you were just— that we were never really friends." She gives a fluttery little smile, but Natasha can see the steel under it. "But there's no reason we can't keep on pretending, right?"

The sly warmth in Pepper's expression surprises her. "Most people get pretty pissed about this sort of thing.”

But Pepper just shrugs. "Most people didn't spend a decade managing Tony Stark." She looks Natasha over. "I'm not really involved in the situation. I'm not S.H.I.E.L.D., I haven't got any superpowers, I'm discrete, and I am incredibly difficult to shock. I thought you might be able to use a friendly ear.”

Natasha considers. The gesture is a nice one, but she’s never been the type to spill her guts. She doesn’t want to rehash her anxieties, or articulate her guilt, or explain the chasm that separates her from someone like Pepper. What she does want, suddenly and with an intensity that surprises her, is to leave all of that behind—to pretend that she’s someone who can have simple conversations with ordinary friends. “I’ve got a better idea.” She opens a cupboard and pulls out a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses. “Get drunk with me.”

Pepper laughs a little, and looks her up and down. “Sounds like fun.”

~

The night of Thor's second watch seems to stretch longer than the first. He has stories aplenty to tell—his own exploits and those of legend and song—but it seems that the people of Midgard lack appreciation for epic tales. This night Clint listens with interest for little more than an hour before growing distracted.

“Surely you have tales of your own,” he encourages. “Regale me.”

“Not sure they’ll live up to your standards.” Clint slides down to sit on the floor, his back to the couch and his face fixed on the door to Tony’s room. “They’re a little light on cosmic foes and grand battles.”

“You are your world’s greatest marksman, and one of the best agents S.H.I.E.L.D. has known,” he coaxes. “I cannot believe you’ve lacked for grand battles.”

“I’m not really the guy you call for an epic fight. I’m the guy you call when you need somebody dead and aren’t too picky about how.” Clint turns to look up at him, and the hard expression on his face seems to dare Thor to disapprove, to disdain the tactics of a sniper or the sort of man who would use them.

And in truth Thor can’t entirely banish his distaste at the idea of lying in wait to take shots at an unsuspecting enemy. The strategy does lack the clean valor of open combat, and he would feel uneasy to use it himself. But there is no shame in a weaker man using his wits where his strength cannot win the day. “I am sure you’ve used your skills in the service of honorable aims.”

Clint shrugs and returns his gaze to the door in front of him. “Can’t say my track record’s perfect, but I do the best I can.”

“So you must have stories to share. Tell me something. The night is long, and I cannot fill it alone.” Perhaps Clint would prefer that they kept to themselves, spending the time on reports or calisthenics or the many entertainments provided by their gadgets. But Thor has always passed nights such as this one in wide-ranging conversation with his comrades, and he values the custom—it is how he forged nearly all of the friendships he values most highly.

For a time, Clint gives no answer, and Thor begins to fear that he pushed too hard with a man who, after all, has many things on his mind. When Clint finally speaks, though, his voice is warm. “Anybody ever tell you about me and Natasha and Bogotá?”

“You will be the first. Go on.”

Clint launches into the story, his cadence hesitant at first, like a boy who has not yet learned the art of storytelling. But as he goes on he seems to lose himself in the memory, allowing Thor too to become wrapped up in the tale.

Thor finds himself laughing heartily at one moment and nodding somberly at the next, and at some point begins to wonder whether Clint is enjoying the reception enough that he’s taken to embellishing in places to draw out the telling. Not that Thor would object to that—some of the best and truest stories he knows are filled out here and there with colorful additions.

When Clint finally concludes, he glances up at Thor. “That was my first mission with Nat, you know that?” He smiles and shakes his head a little, as if in wonder. “She sure as hell didn’t let me down.”

Thor frowns—he knows just enough to realize that there’s a deeper meaning to Clint’s statement that he doesn’t understand.

Clint sees his confusion. “I expected her to.” He looks down at his hands. “I, uh, let’s just say I haven't always made the right calls on who to trust. When I— when Natasha joined S.H.I.E.L.D., I think even Coulson thought it was going to blow up in my face, and theirs too. But he trusted me and I trusted her, and… it’s been years now, and she’s never once made me regret it.”

“She is a noble woman, and courageous.”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees. He pauses for a long moment, and his eyes don’t leave his lap. “This is hard for her.”

“For all of you.”

“More so for her. It’s not her first go-round being a lab rat.”

“A ‘lab rat’? Tony is fond of the expression as well, but I am not familiar—“

“Oh, um, scientists use rats—little, uh, rodents—to test things out. Drugs and surgeries and shampoo and shit like that. It just means… she’s been experimented on before, when she was a kid, so this is all… It’s worse for her.”

“I hope she found vengeance against whoever did such things.”

Clint doesn’t turn his head, but his vicious grin is broad enough that Thor can see it along the side of his face. “You better believe it.” He shrugs. “I don’t know how much that helped, though. I just wish— I’d like to be able to do more for her. She thinks she owes me, because—“ he shakes his head. “It’s not important. She thinks she owes me, but it’s the other way around.”

Thor nods, and they sit in silence for a time.

Finally Clint speaks again. “Your turn. Tell me another one.”

~

Coulson is already waiting outside of Tony’s room by the time Bruce makes his way up the hallway, a little late to take over his shift. Bruce hoped that that last test would give him something—something to share, something to use in his calculations—but in the end it didn’t come to anything, and took longer than it should have besides.

Apparently the rest of the shift handoff hasn’t happened either, because Thor and Clint still sprawl on the couch, and Natasha and Rogers stand nearby. With a sudden, irrational pricking of his nerves he realizes that they’ve been waiting for him.

“What’s up?” he asks in the most casual tone he can pull together.

Coulson nods in greeting. “We’ve been discussing Tony’s condition.”

The answer does nothing to alleviate his anxiety. “Shouldn’t he be here for that?”

“Couldn’t wake him. He was up most of the night and then—” Coulson shrugs. “Anyway, I don’t think he’s going to have a problem with it. I was just saying that I think we can lose the guard shifts.”

Bruce nods, letting his relief fractionally relax the tight muscles of his back. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I think we’re past the point where we need to worry. We’ll still want to check in on him, make sure we’re more or less aware of what he’s up to, but—”

Rogers folds his arms across his chest. “He still needs to be watched.”

Bruce looks around, and sees in Coulson’s face that this isn’t a disagreement between them. “You only meant the guards outside.”

Coulson nods. “His priorities aren’t always... I think it helps him, to have someone there.”

Bruce would like to disagree, but he has to admit that Coulson has a point. Much as he’s pretty sure Tony’s already chafing at the requirement of a chaperone, and much as it’s a role Bruce would prefer to relinquish, he isn’t yet entirely reassured that Tony knows how to rein himself in. At least he _can_ be reined in, and without risk to life and limb. Bruce grimaces. What he wouldn’t give to be so lucky.

He blinks to clear his thoughts, remembers that the others are waiting for him to respond, and nods. To his surprise, Coulson, Natasha and Rogers all relax visibly. Of course. With everything that's happened in the past couple of weeks, he feels almost like a different man. One whose disagreement need not be considered a mortal threat. But he’s the same man he’s always been, and they aren’t about to forget it.

“You still OK sitting with him for now?” Coulson asks.

“Sure.”

“We’ll get out of your way, then.”

Clint stands and stretches. “Figured you and Stark’d want a little private time anyway,” he smirks.

Bruce flushes and ducks his head in an automatic, if more than a little ridiculous, attempt to hide it. He recovers quickly, and regards Clint with what he hopes is a somber expression. “Tony wasn’t exactly himself. I think he’d prefer we don’t bring up— whatever happened.”

“The part where he tried to jump your bones?” Clint clarifies, smirk still firmly affixed to his face. “That seemed pretty much exactly like him, actually.”

Bruce looks around the others, appealing for someone to set Clint straight. But Thor’s grin is almost a match to Clint’s, and Coulson appears to be putting a great deal of effort into keeping a straight face. Rogers at least has the grace to look embarrassed. 

Natasha smiles softly. “Have some fun, Doc. You could probably use it.”

Bruce snorts. “I have no idea how we’re even having this conversation. Even if—” He shakes his head. “I’m too tired to even think about any of this, so maybe we can drop the junior high school routine.”

Clint sobers. “Sorry Doc.”

“It’s just nice to talk about something other than impending catastrophe,” Natasha tells him.

Bruce has to give her that. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Just— I don’t want to embarrass him about it, OK?”

“You know he’d never extend that courtesy to anyone else, right?” Coulson asks.

“Yeah,” Bruce admits. “Still.”

Coulson reaches out and gives Bruce’s shoulder a firm little squeeze as he heads down the hallway. Rogers and Thor follow, and after a moment’s hesitation, so does Natasha.

But Clint hangs back, watching Bruce with those startlingly sharp eyes of his. When Bruce meets them, Clint glances away just a shade too fast, but when he speaks he almost manages to sound casual. “How’s the research, Doc?”

Bruce can read between the lines, can hear the strain behind the question. He blows out a long breath and glances down, hating the answer he has to give. “Not great. I hoped that with Tony’s readings, I could at least— but the transition’s so fast. By the time we got any data, he’d already stabilized.” He looks up to see Clint still watching, waiting for an answer to the question he didn’t ask. “I don’t know if I have enough to prevent the transition. Or control it. I just... I’m sorry, I don’t know.” Bruce looks for the fear and disappointment in Clint’s face, but it’s well hidden. He feels the weight of his guilt anyway. He isn’t fast enough, isn’t good enough. And he’s far, far too tired. But he has to try. “I don’t know _yet_ ,” he amends with the best smile he can produce. “Give me a little time, OK?”

“Sure thing, Doc. Sorry to bug you.” He turns to go, glances over his shoulder. “Thanks.”

Bruce nods at that, palms open the door to Tony’s room, and steps in.

Tony lies motionless in bed, his face slack with sleep but not as alarmingly blank as it had been just after the transformation. Bruce walks softly over the sand to sit at the desk, keeping his movements quiet even though he knows Coulson is right—if Tony exhausted himself last night, he must be dead to the world now.

Bruce places his tablet on the table and brings up the holographic display, sorting through the results of his last few tests, hoping to find something salvageable. But his back aches and his eyes burn and if there's anything in there worth a damn, he isn't seeing it.

He leans back and considers working it through on paper. Needing to keep computers out of the room actually lent him a welcome discipline, forcing him to slow down and think through assumptions that are already built into the digital models. But just now he can’t bring himself to find a pencil and start from scratch.

As he debates it, he runs a hand through his hair and glances at Tony, only to find his eyes open and watchful.

"Morning?" Bruce asks tentatively.

"You look like shit," Tony mutters, turning his face to speak half into his pillows.

"Well, we can't all sparkle."

"Come to bed."

Bruce blinks.

"I mean, _go_ to bed." Tony's voice continues in a slow mumble, nothing like his recent manic speed. "But there's only the one bed, and you can't leave and I am sure as hell not getting up, so: come to bed."

"You're awake, but you’re not—" Bruce murmurs, as much to himself as to Tony. "No zero-to-sixty this time."

" _Sixty_ ," he scoffs. "Sixty is... glacial. And I don't think I'm going to be awake much longer. Come to bed." One hand pats the empty space beside him. Bruce eyes the gentle tumble of soft sheets and thick blankets, and can feel already how good it would be to sink into them.

He hesitates a moment more. He’s got work to do, and the others expect him to keep an eye on Tony. But the truth is that he isn’t getting anywhere in his work, and keeping an eye on Tony doesn’t actually require keeping his eyes open. Bruce’s life has made him an exceptionally light sleeper, and there’s no way Tony could leave a shared bed without waking him.

The shared bed itself should trouble him. After the other day, he shouldn’t intrude on Tony’s space, shouldn’t give any indication that he’s reading more into things than they warrant. 

Shouldn’t let himself hope for something that his life is far too cruel to let him have.

But in that moment he’s too tired to talk himself out of it. 

He doesn’t remove anything before he perches on the side of the bed, and then he strips off only shoes and socks. Even so, when he slips between the sheets, it’s as comfortable as he thought it would be. He barely has time to register the warm presence of Tony’s body beside him before he drifts into sleep.

Just as he knew he would, Bruce wakes as soon as Tony stirs. This time Tony comes awake all at once, and then some. Bruce sits up quickly, but Tony makes it to the desk and switches the tablet back on before Bruce can even push off the covers.

Tony tsks. “Pretty sure these are still off limits, baring S.H.I.E.L.D. getting in way the hell over its head.” That doesn’t stop him from bringing up the model Bruce was working on and spinning it this way and that. “Then again, when the hell isn’t S.H.I.E.L.D. in over its head?”

Bruce lets out a breath, ashamed that he didn’t mentioned before. “Coulson agreed to drop the guard and so on. But… he still wants someone with you, all the time.”

Tony glares at the tablet as he continues to scrutinize the model, but Bruce knows the glare is for him and not the display.

“Sorry. He’ll get over it soon.”

“He?” It’s an accusation.

Bruce sighs. “It isn’t a bad idea. Just for a little longer, while—“

Tony cuts him off. “Don’t care. This all you got?” He gestures at the model.

That smarts. Bruce worked long and hard—just about all the hours he hasn’t spent watching Tony have been spent on that model—and to have him dismiss it like that— 

Bruce shakes his head. Just because he’s used to being the smartest guy in the room doesn’t mean he can’t learn from somebody smarter. The important thing is to get answers.

“You didn’t compensate for the reticular fractioning of the radiation pulse,” Tony complains.

Bruce blinks in surprise. “Didn’t have to.” He leans over Tony’s shoulder. “There’s no way that has an effect—it would bypass the system entirely if it were outside of expected parameters.” He tweaks the display, showing Tony what he means.

Then it’s Tony turn to blink. “Huh. Yeah, OK. But you didn’t— No, you did. OK, Bruce, I’m impressed again. This isn’t bad.”

And there’s no way that should set off a surge of pride, but it does anyway, and Bruce can’t really feel bad about it.

They discuss the tests for a time. Tony’s rapid-fire insights are reliably brilliant, sometimes matching Bruce’s own, often exceeding them, but also wildly overshooting the mark in places. It’s petty, but Bruce is a little relieved that he can, if not keep up, at least provide a grounding attention that keeps their theorizing on track in a way that Tony doesn’t seem to be able to manage on his own. 

It’s all fascinating, it’s all brilliant, but it’s also all going nowhere remotely practical in spite of both of their best efforts.

Bruce sighs. “What we need is a way to recreate the whole system—not just individual clusters but the whole cingulate cortex. Then we can tweak it, figure out if there’s any way to regulate how the myostatins interpret the signals. But—“ he shakes his head. “It’s way too complicated. Even if we grabbed every processor you’ve got, it would take weeks to do it right.”

Tony’s eyes narrow. “I can do it.” Something about his energy seems to change, and his hands fly over the screen, muttering instructions to JARVIS under his breath. 

“Can you do it without leeching off the city’s power grid?” Tony’s increased speed makes Bruce edgy, disturbs the sweet exhilaration of their work, and reminds Bruce of the grinding worry that still hasn’t left him. 

Tony glances back and grins. “Sure thing. Probably. We’ll see.” He returns to his work, and after a moment’s hesitation, Bruce just watches. He can’t keep up the way he would need to to contribute—can barely keep up enough to know what Tony’s doing. He places one hand on Tony’s shoulder. “It’s OK if we can’t get this done today. It’s OK if it takes weeks. Don’t—“ But he isn’t even sure what he’s urging Tony not to do.

He figures it out when the lights flicker. “Tony, stop.” His hand slides down Tony’s arm, coming to rest lightly on the back of his wrist. 

Tony does stop then. He lets his hand still under Bruce’s, lets Bruce draw him up and turn him until they’re face to face. He takes a long deep breath in time with Bruce, and when he lets it out he’s back to what Bruce thinks is more or less his new normal speed.

They take another breath together, and another. “Thanks,” Tony manages.

Bruce doesn’t know what to say to that. He grasps Tony’s arm, just above the elbow, and gives a friendly squeeze.

Tony regards him for a moment. “Look,” he glances away, almost bashful, and then returns his attention to Bruce’s face. “I, ah, I recognize that I was a little out of control the other day, and I probably shouldn’t have, y’know, molested you like that. So if you’re still pissed about that, that’s fair. And if you’re just not interested, well, that’d be a lie, but I’ll pretend otherwise if you insist. But—“ He pauses, but the lights on his skin flicker fast. He tries again. “I would really like to kiss you right now. Can I kiss you right now?”

It’s probably still too soon. Probably not fair to Tony, who’s maybe still vulnerable from his transformation. 

It’s certainly something that Bruce doesn’t deserve, that he won’t get to have for long, that somehow is some kind of cosmic trap just waiting for Bruce to slip up and think he can be happy, just before everything slides inevitably to hell. 

Bruce has dozens of reasons to say no, but all of them together still aren’t half as compelling as the desire in Tony’s eyes.

“Yes,” he breathes, and then Tony’s lips are on his, hot and aggressive, and Tony’s beard rasps against his own two-day stubble, and everything is harsh and demanding and perfect.

Tony backs him up against the bed and he lets himself be bent back to collapse on the mattress while Tony’s hands roam over his body, under his shirt and across his chest.

Tony wastes no time, and Bruce finds himself naked from the waist up in a moment. Bruce responds in kind, pulling Tony’s shirt up and over him, the two of them tangling in the fabric when Tony refuses to pause in his undressing of Bruce for long enough for Bruce to get Tony’s shirt over his head and off. 

Bruce feels a warm chuckle in his own throat, bursting forth unbidden—not a polite response or an embarrassed diversion but honest humor of a sort that he rarely hears on his own lips. Then Tony’s hands are on the fly of his pants and the chuckle turns to a little cry of surprise and desire.

He ought to stop this, slow it down. It wouldn’t have to be over, but they should be reasonable about it, not jump into something all at once. 

He searches inside himself and can’t find the will to do it. The best he can manage is a warning. “I haven’t— Tony, you know that— that I haven’t done this since the— since my incident.”

Tony laughs, a wild, almost manic sound. “Same here.”

“Tony, I’m—“ he gasps as Tony drags down the zip of his pants and slides a hand in to caress him through the silk of his boxers. “I’m serious,” he manages, “it’s a risk.”

Tony bends over him and presses his lips against Bruce’s neck, sucking at the skin and leaving behind the rough impression of his beard. “No it isn’t. You’d be halfway across the room by now if you really thought it was.”

He isn’t really wrong. Except— “If you— Tony, if you can’t—“ He can’t finish.

Tony breaks away, still straddling Bruce, but for a moment not touching him anywhere. “If I can’t stop, you mean. If you say stop and I don’t.”

The words feel like a slap across Bruce’s face, and he hates himself for even entertaining the idea. Even at his worst, that first morning, Tony stopped when he needed to. Bruce reaches up to run a thumb along the side of Tony’s face. “If I was just me…”

“You trust me with your life, just not with my life?”

Bruce swallows, and makes a choice. “I trust you.” He draws Tony down again and brings their lips together.

Tony moans into the kiss and reaches in again to palm Bruce’s cock. The little electric tingle of Tony’s body arcs through him, and Bruce feels the jolt everywhere. It’s almost too much, but it’s perfect anyway, and Bruce’s hips thrust upwards of their own volition.

Tony’s hand curls tight around Bruce’s cock, and then he’s stroking, firm and hard and solid, in a steady rhythm that draws a desperate moan from Bruce’s throat. Tony’s lips and teeth scrape along his jaw and down his neck to his collar bone.

Only moments later Bruce can feel the tension welling up inside him, drawn there and inexorably pulled through and out of him by Tony’s expert grip. And then his back arches and he’s coming, gasping at the rich hot pleasure of it. He can feel Tony’s smirk against his skin, and Tony’s warm body pressed down against his. 

As the aftershocks ripple through him he realizes that he’s waiting for the aching loneliness that so often follows when he brings himself off with his own hand. 

It doesn’t come.

Tony lets his lips trail across Bruce’s skin, back up to kiss him again and then breaks away once more. “Want you,” he breathes. “Want more. I want everything.”

Bruce isn’t sure what “everything” means, but he wants to agree to it anyway. “Be a little more specific?” he suggests instead.

“In you. Want to be in you.” He pulls away far enough to look Bruce in the eye. “Can I—? Do you—?”

“Yes,” Bruce whispers, caught up in the promise of his eyes. “Please.” A heartbeat later his sense returns, and he considers the practicalities. “Uh, but, lube? And a condom?”

Tony shifts to hang off the edge of the bed, fishing through the bottom drawer of the bedside table. The motion gives Bruce a highly stimulating view of Tony’s back, the muscles tight and shifting as he supports himself with one hand while combing through the supplies with the other.

When he hauls himself back onto the bed he’s got two bottles of lube and a strip of condoms in one hand.

Bruce snorts. “You put those in here for Rogers?”

Tony somehow manages to look a little offended while shucking off his own pants and going after Bruce’s. “Each guest room in Stark Tower is equipped with every amenity for the health, safety, and enjoyment of my guests.” He makes it sound like there’s a pamphlet somewhere saying as much. Which, Bruce reflects, there just might be. “Don’t knock it,” he concludes with a grin as he hauls Bruce’s pants and boxers off in one quick, if still slightly awkward, motion.

Tony collapses onto Bruce, his hands everywhere, grasping and groping, and Bruce feels as if there’s no part of his body that Tony isn’t on or in, that Tony can’t get to and make his own. Tony’s mouth finds one of Bruce’s nipples and he takes it between his teeth. He’s gentle—the touch doesn’t come close to alarming the other guy. What it does is send a surge of lust through Bruce, and even though he’s only half recovered from the orgasm Tony already wrung from his cock, he wants everything that Tony’s doing and more. “Please,” he whispers.

Tony moans and Bruce can feel his bare cock pressed against the skin of Bruce’s thigh. “Pretty sure that’s my line. I need to be in you. Need everything.”

“Take it, then,” Bruce urges him. He runs a hand through Tony’s hair and clenches his fingers experimentally. Tony moans, and he does it again. He lets his other hand run over Tony’s shoulder, pressing lines into Tony’s skin with his fingernails.

Tony groans and fumbles to slick his fingers, and then Bruce can feel him pressing insistently against Bruce’s opening. Over and in and more and everything, until Bruce strains again with need, drawing up his legs as far as they’ll go and reaching out to draw Tony closer.

His hand grabs at Tony’s hair again and Tony gasps, making the lights on his skin brighten and shift, and Bruce gasps too, as the electric tingle of Tony’s fingers invades him, producing pleasure in nerves he didn’t even know he had.

And then Tony shifts and the fingers are gone, but they’re replaced in a heartbeat and Bruce’s world dissolves into the urgent tangle of their bodies as Tony gasps and sparks and bucks his pleasure into Bruce. “Goddamn, Bruce,” Tony whimpers against his skin, voice tense with need, “so good, so much, so _much_.” And then he throbs, and somewhere along the line Bruce’s eyes closed, but they’re open again now as Tony lights up like fireworks, the electric shiver of his pleasure burning into Bruce every place their bodies touch. Bruce comes with a cry, cut off only when Tony captures his lips in a kiss.

They shiver through exquisite little aftershocks together, in each other’s arms, until Tony pulls out with one last groan. He barely manages to roll off the condom and toss it in the trash before he collapses, his cheek on Bruce’s shoulder and his leg draped over Bruce’s hip.

Bruce brings one hand up to smooth his hair, letting it drift down to rest on Tony’s shoulder as Bruce too drifts off into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, Pepper was wrong—Clint actually made _three_ pies… http://archiveofourown.org/comments/2808105


	13. More Exhilarating Than Fear (in the long run)

Sweat drips into Steve’s eyes, but he can’t spare a hand to wipe it away. Thor’s blows come far too fast, and Steve has to concentrate to have a chance of dodging or deflecting them, let alone landing some of his own.

Since he was retrieved from the ice, Steve’s done a lot of sparring. But the challenge of it has nearly always been a purely intellectual one—learning new techniques, gauging the strengths of his partners, making sure they’re getting what they need out of the exercise. Nobody at S.H.I.E.L.D. can come close to matching his strength and speed, and few have his dexterity. Even the very best agents only take him by surprise once in a long while.

All of which is fine—he’s happy to do his bit, and he certainly gets something out of the well honed techniques of his various opponents, but from time to time what he wants is a really physical fight.

He’s getting it now.

Sparring with Thor’s been a real education, and one that Steve appreciates and enjoys. He suspects that Thor views the fights much as Steve does those with S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, but Thor’s all good humor anyway, and never seems to mind.

When they finally call a halt, Steve’s breath comes in gasps, and his shoulders and legs and most everything else ache pleasantly. He recovers himself and claps Thor on the shoulder. "You know, I really missed fighting someone who could kick my ass."

"You fight exceptionally well for one of Midgard," Thor allows, and Steve does his best to ignore the condescension in the compliment.

"Thanks," he says with a wry smile.

Clint and Natasha have ended their bout already, and lean against the wall with water bottles in hand. Clint tosses one each to Steve and Thor, and Steve uncaps his and takes a long drink. “Lunch?” he suggests when he comes up for air.

“Sounds good,” Natasha agrees. She discards her towel and heads out the door. Clint hangs back and catches Steve’s eye. Thor glances at the two of them, and quickens his pace to catch up with Natasha.

Steve looks Clint up and down. He’s tired, obviously—still carrying a load of tension, still haunted by everything that’s happened to him and to the rest of them. But the set of his shoulders is more determined than defeated, and it brings a smile to Steve’s lips. “What’s up?”

Clint ducks his head, like he’s got something to say, but isn’t sure he wants to say it.

“You and Natasha looked good over there. From what I could see when I wasn’t getting my ass handed to me, anyway.” Steve keeps his voice casual, and matches Clint’s slow stride as he heads out the door. All they’re doing is chatting together as they walk to lunch, and if they’re doing it a little slowly, a little quietly, there doesn’t have to be anything unusual to it. Sometimes a man like Clint needs a little space to have a conversation he needs to have.

When Clint speaks, his words tumble out in a rush. “Why’d you volunteer? For, uh, Project Rebirth? Did they really call it that?”

Steve smiles. “They really called it that. I volunteered because there was a war on, and I wanted to do my part. And the way I was then...” he laughs again. It feels good that he can laugh about it without bitterness now, as he never could at the time. “Let’s just say nobody thought I’d be much use at the front.”

Clint doesn’t answer that, and Steve lets the conversation lapse.

Just shy of the living room, Clint pauses and leans against the wall. “What did they tell you about it, at the time?”

“Not a lot. Dr. Erskine... he tried to explain it, but, honestly, all I really heard was that it was my chance to get into the fight.”

Clint’s quiet again, looking Steve up and down. Steve lets him, trying not to feel awkward about his still-strange body or the troubled wonder in Clint’s gaze. Clint’s got to work through this in his own way, and Steve’s glad to be a comforting example, if he can.

“What would you do, if you were me?” he finally asks.

Steve thinks for a moment. He doesn’t want to blurt out the first thing that comes to mind; doesn’t want to give Clint a too-easy answer. But when he does speak, it’s what he would have said immediately anyway. “Same thing I did. Trust myself. And volunteer. I’m sure Dr. Banner can—“

“You think I should tell Banner to pump me full of radiation?”

“Isn’t that what you were asking?”

Clint looks away. “Probably,” he admits.

“Well, you have my answer. It’s up to you, but I say get it over with. It can’t be worse than you’re expecting.”

“Cap, all due respect, it can always be worse than I expect.”

But for all the pessimism in his words, to Steve’s eyes Clint doesn’t look afraid.

~

When Tony wakes he finds his cheek pressed against Bruce's chest, one arm draped over his stomach, hips pressed against his thigh. The whole passing out thing is going to take some getting used to—it's been years since he's fallen asleep so close to another person, and longer since he's woken up that way.

Under the circumstances, though, he's got no objection. Bruce’s skin tingles under his, and Tony wants, needs to be touching it everywhere. He presses a series of kisses into Bruce's chest before zeroing in on one nipple and taking it between his lips.

Bruce arches up against him and groans. “Fuck, Tony.”

"Excellent suggestion," Tony agrees immediately, and rolls off Bruce in search of the remaining condoms and lube.

Bruce's hand lands on his shoulder. "Uh, not actually sure I can. You were only passed out for a couple of hours this time, so... uh..." He shifts to put his tablet down and smiles. "But I could—"

The tablet catches Tony's eye as Bruce places it on the bed, and without thinking he snatches it up and scans through the report. It’s a series of intelligence summaries, pages and pages of activity by low level assholes that S.H.I.E.L.D.'s designated as persons of interest.

Bruce shifts to look over his shoulder. "You know, a guy could be offended by how fast—"

Tony doesn't shift his gaze from the screen. "Could be, but you aren't. What are you doing with this? Not exactly your wheelhouse.”

Bruce begins to answer, but Tony can’t attend to him. His focus stays on the report as he pages through it, trying to put his finger on the pattern that hovers just on the edges of his consciousness. He glances at the sand on the floor, his fingers itching to sketch sequences and equations into its surface. If he can just distract himself long enough, the rest of his mind might be able to put the pieces together.

Tony rolls out of bed and doesn’t bother to dress before sinking to his knees and smoothing out a space to work.

Bruce has stopped talking. As Tony pokes at the sand and tries to think, he’s vaguely aware of Bruce retrieving his clothes, shaking them out, and putting them on.

JARVIS pings for attention. “Captain Rogers wishes to inform you that dinner is ready, if you wish to join him.”

Tony’s stomach’s registers its response to that idea and he jumps to his feet. He’s halfway to the door before he hears Bruce’s amused cough.

“I think Cap would appreciate it if you dressed for dinner. He’s old fashioned that way.”

Tony rolls his eyes, but does pull on pants and a shirt before returning to the door. It feels like he’s been cooped up in that wretched room for ages, and he’s glad to leave it. But the flickering lights on his hand as he reaches for the door remind him of the reception waiting for him. He's mostly been spared dealing with the team since he changed, and he isn't looking forward to their edgy concern. Normally he's got no problem with making people nervous, but it's a hell of a lot more fun when it's a deliberate choice and not a byproduct of whatever he is now.

He allows his focus wander along the lines of light playing inside the wall, lets himself examine the datastreams whose meanings he can't decipher, but which glow so prettily in their lengths of cable.

He turns back to the door, but hesitates again. "They're still scared of you too, right?"

"Always," Bruce agrees. He keeps his tone even, but Tony can feel the soft tangle of his nerves flare up bright for an instant before settling back down. "Shall we go?"

"Why the hell not?" Tony pushes open the door and heads for the dining room. He's halfway there when he notices that Bruce is running to keep up. He should slow down, should wait, but somehow he’s already just outside the dining room before he manages to do it.

When he passes through the doorway he does stop, struck by an overwhelming shimmer of energy. His eyes supply the information that it’s Thor, but his mind still processes the figure as a haze of moving lights. “You are— goddamn, look at you.” He blinks. “Sorry. Not a come-on. Unless—” he shakes his head quickly. “No, definitely not a come-on, you don’t need to tell Jane to come over and kick my ass.” He glances over his shoulder. “Or, uh, Bruce. I guess.” Wow is this ever bad time to be working out the boundaries of what may or may not be a relationship. He turns back to Thor, unable to ignore the fantastic energy patterns throughout his body. “Just— Jesus, you really are an alien.”

“Are you well?” Thor asks. Tony tries to focus on the visible spectrum, and makes out puzzled concern on his face.

"New sensory inputs. Gonna take some getting used to. But I am not complaining." He allows himself to study the rhythms of Thor's energy for another instant before shifting his attention to the rest of the room. The others are comparatively dull—it’s easy to see them as he always did.

Just now they all eye him warily. Natasha’s hand hovers inconspicuously close to the tranq gun in her holster, and he supposes he should be grateful that it’s a tranq gun. Though, considering the reason she has it, there’s really no guarantee that it doesn’t carry enough tranquilizer to stop his heart. He reminds himself to keep a tight lid on sudden movements, and it occurs to him to wonder if that’s something he can still do.

That’s a fun little thought right there.

Clint ferries a couple of platters to the table, but his eyes keep darting over Tony. His expression carries some concern, but mostly it’s assessing, like he’s drawing up Tony’s measure. And, if Tony isn’t very much mistaken, he’s got no real objection to what he sees. Good.

Coulson clears his throat. “I hoped we could discuss the latest intel over dinner. We’ve been picking up some concerning information. Nothing on Baker, but there’s been more activity among low level threats than—“

“Yeah, saw that.” Tony jerks his head in Bruce’s direction. “Borrowed his tablet. I hear I’m allowed to do that now, even if S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t actively need me to save its ass.”

“Stark, this will be easier if you don’t pretend not to know why we needed to keep a watch on you for a while.”

“Need _ed_? Aren’t I still being followed?” He shoots Bruce a meaningful look, and is somehow both gratified and ashamed by the guilty look on Bruce’s face.

“Yes,” Coulson agrees evenly. “But for now can we return to the subject? Any thoughts?”

“Lots. Tons. Not sure yet which ones are of any use. Still working on that part.“ Tony leans over the table next to Rogers and grabs a chicken wing. He takes a bite and continues on to the other end of the room, turns, and paces back. “What have you got so far?” He does listen to Coulson’s response, but the words crawl. He splits his focus, giving the conversation all the attention he can, while he uses the rest to calculate the size of the room, the length of his strides, his rate of speed, the force exerted by each step as he pushes off the floor. The time it will take before his pacing manages to infuriate at least someone on the team. That one’s easy—he’s only crossed the room thrice when it becomes clear that the answer is none at all.

When Coulson pauses in his explanation, Tony smirks at him. “This is bugging the shit out of you, isn’t it?”

“I have to admit, it’s not helping my concentration.”

“Well too bad. It’s essential to mine. You—all of you, sorry Bruce—move too slow. I’m running a little hot, and I need something to distract myself in order to talk at your level.”

Coulson blinks and sucks in a breath. His poker face doesn’t really shift, but Tony’s pretty sure his non-reaction is anybody else’s open rage.

“That was offensive,” Tony admits. “You were offended. I’d say I’m sorry, but it wouldn’t be true, and we’re all just going to have to live with that. Keep talking.”

After a moment's pause Coulson does, and then Natasha chimes in, and Clint, and Thor. Tony’s pacing slows as his mind shifts to reviewing what he remembers of the data on Bruce’s tablet. The pattern dances just out of his reach, and he’s sure it’s too simple for him—for any of them—not to have seen it already.

And then it clicks. “It’s not what they have in common,” he mutters, not particularly caring that he’s cutting Thor off mid-sentence. “It’s what they don’t have in common.”

“I don’t follow.” Coulson frowns, and Tony suppresses the urge to shake him.

“It’s what they _don’t have_ in common. None of these guys know the first thing about electronic security, or mobile tech.”

Natasha’s jaw clenches. “You think Baker’s helping them out.”

“She’s tech support. They supply the vendettas and the batshit schemes and the ostrich-alligator hybrids or whatever the hell, and she gives them the technological know-how to get where they need to go.”

Coulson’s put down his tablet. “To what end?” He’s asking himself as much as he’s asking Tony or any of them.

“Coordinated attack, maybe,” Clint muses, “or they’re advising on whatever they know and she doesn’t.”

“Or just paying her,” Bruce suggests.

Natasha nods. “Could be money, could be supplies that she doesn’t have. Could be they’re giving her a place to hide—a network of places.”

“Which would explain why we’ve been striking out trying to track her down,” Coulson agrees. “She wouldn’t need to use any of her existing contacts.”

“So we’re good, then,” Tony concludes. “Just put people on monitoring all these guys, and wait ‘til she shows up. No muss, no fuss.”

“That’s an awful lot of personnel,” Rogers notes.

Clint nods, and looks to Coulson. “Do we have that kind of manpower available for this?”

Coulson shakes his head. “Not at the moment. But we’ll do the best we can, narrow down the likeliest safehouses. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“And that’s where we are?” Tony stops pacing. “Maybe we’ll get lucky? So basically, we’re on the level of a high school kid on prom night. Fantastic.”

Rogers glares at him. “If you’ve got any suggestions, I’m sure we’d all like to hear them.”

Tony huffs, but the truth is that he hasn’t got anything. Not yet, anyway. “Give me a little time. I’ll run through the data, see what else I can find, try to track down how she’s contacting these losers. One way or another, we have to be able to find her. Because frankly, this is getting fucking ludicrous.”

No one seems to disagree.

~

Clint's mind has been made up for a couple of days before he admits it to himself.

Only then does he come up with his reasons. He's sick of waiting for the other shoe to drop. He wants to do the transition now, before the mytosis or myostatins or midichlorians or whatever the hell multiply any more than they have already. He hopes another transformation—a controlled one, under whatever monitoring Banner sees fit—will provide enough data to come up with a cure, or at least a treatment, for Natasha.

All perfectly valid reasons, and relevant ones. But to himself, at least, he has to admit that the real reason is that he can’t stand the idea of leaving this all up to Baker and her nauseatingly well laid plans. And even if they find her, put her away for good, there will still be risks—she broadcast to the world that they’re vulnerable, and the world will keep that in mind. As long as the serum lurks unactivated in his blood, he’ll always be at the mercy of anybody with a gamma generator, and he’s had his fill of being under other people’s control.

Of course, now that he’s admitted to himself what he intends to do, the only problem is telling the rest of the team.

Some of them will be easy. Steve obviously already wants him to go ahead with this, and he's pretty sure Thor will approve. Tony— well, it's a little hard to say just how Tony will react to anything at the moment, but Clint isn't expecting an argument there. Banner will probably be glad to have a test subject, as long as everybody's careful not to put in quite those terms.

Coulson's the wild card. He'll respect Clint’s decision, but that doesn't mean he'll like it. Clint doesn't particularly relish the thought of telling him, but it's the conversation with Natasha that he really dreads.

Which of course means that’s the one he most needs to have.

He considers making it his first stop. It’s still early—she probably won’t have left her rooms yet, but she’ll be up. It’s what he ought to do.

He goes to the lab instead.

As expected, Bruce sits at his accustomed place in spite of the hour, pouring over what Clint assumes is a sophisticated analysis of something or other.

Banner looks up quickly, and then glances to the side. Clint follows his gaze to see Tony, passed out on a couch in the corner.

Banner’s gaze returns to Clint’s face quickly, as if embarrassed to have been caught checking on Tony. Huh. Maybe just doctorly concern. Or maybe things with Tony went better than Banner hoped. Clint files that suspicion away.

“How are things going, Doc?” he asks, keeping the question carefully open-ended, so that Banner can answer on whatever subject suits him.

He colors anyway, and glances at Tony again, but when he answers his tone is all business. “Slowly. I’m—“ he cuts himself off. “We’re making progress, but there isn’t— there’s less than I’d like to work with.”

“Yeah, about that.” Clint draws a breath, willing his tongue to form the words he needs to say. For a moment he comes up with nothing. Banner just waits, eyes flicking over to him and away, giving him time. “Figured maybe you could use a guinea pig," Clint finally manages, and then curses as Banner's face darkens. "Shit, I didn't mean it like that. I know you wouldn't ask. I know I don't have to." He takes a breath and meets Banner's eyes. "I'm tired of waiting."

Banner stands and approaches, his eyes still troubled. "Impatience—not the best motivation. I speak from experience."

Clint knows that. Remembered it before he spoke. But didn't come up with a better way to make his request anyway. He opens his mouth to explain, to ask in the right way, but before he can, a muffled crash interrupts him and he spins, fingers itching for his bow.

Tony scrambles to stand, bracing himself against the couch as he gets his feet under him. His eyes don't leave Banner. "Hey, wow, what’s got you all—” He gestures vaguely, and only then seems to notice Clint. “Interesting conversation?”

There’s a threat to his tone that Clint doesn’t entirely understand. “Uh, I think I just walked into something here, and I—”

Banner shoots him a weak smile. “Don’t worry about it.” He turns to Stark. “Tony, it doesn’t mean anything.”

Clint doesn’t shift his wary posture. “What doesn’t mean anything?”

“Part of Tony’s...” he pauses for an instant, searching for the right word.

“Superpower,” Tony suggests.

Banner’s lips quirk. “Sure. Part of Tony’s ‘superpower’ is that he can sense changes in the nervous system. In my particular case that means that he’s aware of changes in my mental state related to the other guy.”

Clint swallows, and feels his skin prickle. “You mean that—”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing. Tony’s just getting used to seeing it, and he seems to have developed a tendency to overreact.” And somehow it’s the fondly dirty look Banner shoots Tony then that convinces Clint that they’ve definitely consummated whatever’s between them. Banner looks back to Clint. “I really do have it under control.”

Clint shakes his head. He hadn’t even thought to worry about the other guy—it’s a different nightmare making his blood ice over at the moment. “I wasn’t worried about— just—” He looks at Tony. “You can... read minds now?”

“What? No.” Tony gives a short laugh. “Really no. I can—” he waves his hand, obviously searching for the right word, “I can... sort of _see_ the electrical impulses in the nervous system.” He blinks, and seems to realize something. He brings his hands up, palms out as if in surrender, but they spark with energy, cold and bright, which pretty much ruins the effect. “No psychic powers here,” he promises fervently, “mind control or otherwise.”

Clint lets out a breath. “Yeah, OK. Right. Sorry. Didn’t mean to—”

“Hey, no, pretty sure you’ve got a right to be freaked about that one.” Tony puts his hands down. He wanders over to a display screen and calls up some kind of modeling program. “So what brings you here, then? Don’t let me interrupt your little tête-à-tête.” He waves vaguely without turning back to look at either of them.

Bruce turns his attention to Clint. “If you’d like to speak privately, we can do that.”

“No. I already told you what I want. Are you going to do it or not?”

“If it’s what you want, it’s what we’ll do. But— I have to be clear, Clint. I haven’t made any progress in controlling the… transformation. And if you wait, give us a little more time, there’s still a chance that we will.”

“Not that big a chance,” Tony chimes in without looking away from his display.

Banner ducks his head, and gives a little nod. “But it is a chance.”

“But there’s also— the, uh, the serum, you said it would multiply, or something. So the effect now…”

“Right. It’s less now than it would be if it happens later. Unless we come up with something.”

Clint nods. "And... you'd monitor, right? Maybe give you something to work with to..." he doesn't finish.

Banner watches him for a moment, considering. When he speaks, his voice is gentle. "There are no guarantees this will help her."

“Yeah. I know. But—” He shakes his head. “I’m done waiting. I’ll take my chances.”

“OK,” Banner agrees, a small smile on his lips. “We’ll get to work.”

As Banner turns to bring a schematic up on the nearest display, Tony springs to his feet and makes a beeline to the opposite side of the lab, collecting wires and spare parts as he goes. “I am all over this.”

He sparks with energy, the lights swirling faster, and Clint watches with growing unease. He takes a step towards Banner and speaks quietly. “Is he— look, I’m sorry, but... is he OK to do this?”

Tony apparently hears it, though. “What is it, Barton, don’t you trust me?”

Clint pauses. “Kind of?” he offers, hoping the humor takes the sting out of it.

Tony snorts, and returns to whatever he’s doing. “Good answer.”

Banner turns away from the schematics to look at Clint. “We’ll work on it together. But if you want someone else, someone from S.H.I.E.L.D. maybe, to weigh in before we go forward, we can do that too.”

Clint shakes his head. He may know some of the S.H.I.E.L.D. techs better than Banner and Stark, but he doesn’t trust them any more. “I’m in your hands on this one, Doc,” he nods at Tony, “and yours, Stark, even if they are freaky and covered in lightning.”

“Noted,” Tony answers without turning his attention away from his work.

“It’ll take a few hours to build, and a couple more to test, but we can be ready to go by...” he glances at his watch, “probably noon, give or take.”

Clint swallows. Somehow he assumed it would take a few days at least. He hasn’t changed his mind, but the immediacy of it makes him a little queasy.

“We don’t have to do it right away,” Banner adds. “Your call, your timetable.”

Clint shakes his head. “No, noon’s— noon’s good. What the hell, right?”

“Right,” Banner agrees.

Clint shifts from one foot to the other, and then nods towards the door. “I should, uh—“ The phrase “put my affairs in order,” comes to mind, but he doesn’t let it cross his lips.

Banner just nods absently, his attention already back on the schematics on his screen.

Clint’s next stop ought to be Natasha’s. She’s probably still in her own room—as momentous as the conversation with Banner may have felt, it didn’t actually take long.

But he isn’t quite ready for that. And anyway, he really does have to tell Coulson too.

Coulson invites him in immediately when Clint knocks. As the door slides open and Clint enters, Coulson pulls himself to his feet. He's sheened with sweat and wearing an undershirt and shorts--an unusual look for him, and one that shows off a body that’s worlds away from that of the desk jockey people tend to take him for. As if Clint didn’t know that already.

"What can I do for you, Agent Barton?"

"I, uh, I just figured I should let you know..." He trails off, glances down at his shoes, at Coulson's shoes, at the warm wood of the floor. He takes a breath and meets Coulson's waiting gaze. "I'm going to have Banner do the radiation thing—trigger the serum." He glances away again. "If you have no objection. Sir."

Coulson watches him for a long moment, and finally gives a satisfied nod. “Good.”

Clint blinks. “Good?”

“Clint, it’s your decision, but I think it’s the right one. And frankly it’s one that I expect to make my life easier.”

"You didn't say..."

He shakes his head. "Had to be your call."

Clint nods at that, and tries to find something else to say. He expected the conversation to be more dramatic, somehow, and Coulson's easy acceptance leaves him without a script.

"Clint?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not worried."

Clint shifts uneasily. "But you're still going to take precautions, right?"

"Of course. I'll speak to Dr. Banner and Captain Rogers, make appropriate arrangements. But we aren't going to need them."

Clint swallows, nods again, and still doesn't manage to leave.

"Have you told Natasha yet?"

"Nope."

"Are you going to?"

"Sir, if I don't tell her beforehand, I think the procedure will be the least of my worries."

He smiles. "Fair enough."

Clint stands a moment more before giving one final nod and turning to go. He stops at the door, but doesn't turn. "You're really not worried?"

"No."

"You're a good liar, Sir. Thanks for that." And then he's out the door and heading down the hallway, giving Coulson no time to respond.

He finds Natasha in the kitchen, drinking her coffee with Thor, while Steve rifles through the fridge, getting ready to make breakfast. He pauses at the threshold, watching her for a moment. She leans back in her chair, as if relaxed, but he can read her anxiety in the stiff way she holds her neck.

She turns and watches him back, and after a long moment her eyes narrow. “No.”

“You haven’t even—“ He glances at Thor and Steve, who studiously ignore him. “Maybe we should do this someplace else?”

She doesn’t answer, but rises to her feet and stalks out of the room, not turning back to see whether he follows.

He does.

They don’t speak again until they get where they’re going—the Hulk room, apparently. She doesn’t speak even then—instead she crosses her arms over her chest and takes a few slow steps towards the opposite wall, keeping her back to him.

“I told Banner and Stark to get ready to trigger the serum. For me.” She obviously already knows that, but it’s as good a place to start the conversation as any.

Apparently not good enough to elicit a response, though.

He tries again. “I’m fucking sick of waiting. I need to get this over with.”

He waits, but that gets no answer either.

“Stark’s OK. I mean... it’s weird, and he’s a little... you know, impulsive, but he’s basically... OK. He’s coping. He _gets_ to cope. And I’m just stuck here... waiting for Baker to waltz in and pull my trigger, and I can’t—” He can’t take that. He can’t, and he realizes now that much as he wants her approval, he has to do this whether she gives it or not. “Will you just fucking say something? Please?”

She turns, her arms still held tightly over her chest, and looks at him, letting her eyes travel up and down his body, finally resting on his face. “OK.”

Clint snorts, the ridiculous simplicity of her answer somehow breaking the tension that’s built up inside him. “OK you’ll say something, or you’re OK with me doing this?”

“Both, I guess.” She closes the distance between them and puts a hand on his arm. “You deserve to have this over with. I don’t like it, and I don’t trust it. But I trust you, and if this is your choice, I’ll back you up.”

“It’s my choice.”

“OK then. What do you need?"

In the end he doesn't need much of anything. Stark and Banner have their equipment set up well before ten, and Clint doesn’t need to do anything but show up.

By noon— _high_ noon, some relic of his childhood insists—he's covered in sensors and wires and sticky bits of gel holding them in place. They itch and pull at his skin, but he doesn't complain.

The team gathers in the Hulk room. Nobody discussed it, not with Clint at least, but they all know anyway that that's where it has to be.

Banner shows him they chamber they intend to use. It's more tanning bed than coffin, a fact for which he's grateful, and unlike either of those it’s upright. It shouldn't matter, but he's glad to think he'll get to face this on his own two feet.

Coulson shakes his hand before Clint enters the pod, and murmurs "still not worried," just loud enough for Clint to hear.

Then he backs away, and Natasha takes his place. "You're sure about this?"

He nods.

"And it isn't..." she hesitates, and runs a finger along the wire from one of the sensors. "You aren't doing this to—"

He shakes his head. "It's a bonus, but no. I already told you why, and you know I never get away with lying to you."

"Damn right," she agrees, the strain just audible under the familiar words.

"And, hey, if I get out of control, I know you can handle it." He manages a grin. "Did it before, after all."

She smiles back, and some small part of the expression looks genuine. "Not sure hitting you in the head is going to work this time. But I promise to give it a shot if you piss me off."

"If?" he asks, the grin coming easier now.

She punches his shoulder, but far more gently than usual. "I've got your back, OK?"

He meets her eyes and nods. She returns the gesture and takes a couple of steps back.

Clint glances over Steve and Thor's solemn faces, and then at Banner and Tony. It’s his last chance to change his mind, call it all off. He could. It’s an option. They might judge him for it, but they’d respect his decision. Nat would probably applaud it.

But this is the call he made. He's sure as hell not going to back out now and wait for somebody else to make it for him. He harbors no illusions that the result can’t be worse than the anticipation, but he's too sick of waiting to care.

He pulls together his cockiest grin and ignores the fact that everyone in the room can see right through it. "Let's do this thing."

Tony gives a sharp nod. “JARVIS, you heard the man.”

“Yes Sir.”

The pod closes, and Clint takes a deep breath and reminds himself that he isn't claustrophobic, that he’s never had a problem with small spaces.

Pain, though—pain he really doesn't care for. Which is the last thing he manages to think before it lances through him, overwhelming him with a burning agony inside and out.

He doesn't pass out. That's a surprise and a shame, because it means there’s nothing at all that he can do but feel the pain ripping through everything that he is. It lasts forever, except that then, very suddenly, it’s gone, leaving in its wake the fuzzy euphoria that always follows pain’s abrupt departure.

When he swallows his mouth feels like a desert, and his throat hurts like hell. The pod doesn’t open immediately, so he’s got a quiet moment in the dark to assess his own condition.

He feels... normal. Which doesn’t mean much, really. Except that there’s no ice in his veins, no suffocating fist clenched around his heart, no sharp fingers poking and prodding at his mind.

Of course there isn’t. There was no reason to think there would be. It’s only now that he realizes that some part of him expected it anyway.

He takes a breath and tries again to assess his status. But there’s nothing—no change at all that he can feel from inside. Good. That’s good. 

It’s probably good.

The pod starts to open, and he seeks out Natasha’s face first. She’s schooled her expression into a careful mask, but he knows her well enough to read the fear under it. Her lips press into a hard line as she takes in the sight of him, and the mask slips just enough to let him see horror in her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, that was mean. I tried to end the chapter somewhere else—I really did! But... mean just worked better, you know?


	14. Only to be Kind (reason enough)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter beta'ed by the fantastic [featheredschist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/featheredschist/pseuds/featheredschist). Many thanks to her! All mistakes are of course my own.

When he hears Barton scream, Phil entertains the unworthy notion that Stark and Banner should really have taken the trouble to make the radiation chamber soundproof.

But he’s heard worse than that, more than once. He can cope with it. Does cope with it.

It isn’t until the screaming ends that Phil’s breath catches, and he waits in tense silence with the others. None of them move, and it’s wholly possible that none of them breathe, as the radiation warning light switches off, and the chamber’s locks disengage with a soft hiss.

When the door swings open, the first thing that Phil registers is Barton’s eyes. Phil allows himself to let out a long breath at that, because the eyes remain Barton’s usual gray-blue. The curve of his lips carries fear and concern, but it’s Barton’s own expression.

The rest of him though— Phil swallows. His skin, every inch that’s visible, has turned a mottled gray. Apart from his eyes, he could be a statue. 

Barton’s gaze finds Romanoff’s face and stays there, still as the sculpture he looks like. When Phil glances over, he sees badly concealed terror in Romanoff’s face, and winces inwardly. Of all the times for her to get sloppy, now isn’t the best. But he knows the depths of her feelings for Barton, and shouldn’t be surprised that she can’t hide her horror at the extent of his transformation.

What remains to be seen is how deep it goes, whether Phil was wrong to find relief in Barton’s eyes and the familiar expression on his lips. Those could be illusions. Sometimes he can see Banner in the Hulk’s face too, and that in no way means that the other guy is under control.

“Barton, status.” He hopes the blunt demand will capture Clint’s attention, and it does. 

Clint’s head swivels, and out of the corner of his eyes Phil can see Romanoff’s tension ebb slightly, without by any means departing. 

Clint’s lips part to answer. They close again, and Phil can see his adam’s apple bob as he swallows before trying again. “What is it?” Only then does it seem to occur to him to look down at himself. He holds a hand up in front of his face, clenching and unclenching his fist and watching as the rough stone texture bends and flexes like ordinary skin. He stares for a moment, then blinks, and stares again.

“Talk to me, Clint,” Phil calls out.

“I—“ Clint manages. “I think I’m OK.” He glances over at Stark. “This is some kind of karmic revenge for calling you freaky-looking, isn't it? ‘Cause…”

Stark grins. “We can be freaky looking together. It’ll be fun.”

Barton manages a weak grin. “Always hated undercover work anyway,” he claims, and Phil knows that it’s true enough as far as it goes. Even so, he winces a little at the preemptive hurt that underlines Barton’s tone. 

Banner takes a couple of steps towards the pod, where Barton still stands, covered in sensors. “How do you feel?”

Barton pauses for a moment, then shrugs. The motion looks strange on his skin. Phil is aware that some consider muscles like Clint’s to be a work of art already, but it looks more literally true now. “I feel normal. Uh… believe it or not.”

Banner produces a wry smile. “We knew anything was possible, even ‘normal.’” He takes another step towards Barton. “We can lose the sensors now, if you want.” He waits for Barton’s nod of agreement before closing the space between them and beginning to strip each one off in quick, economical motions. “Good news is it looks like you’re not radioactive, no unusual electrical readings. Everything we’ve got on you so far is, like you said, normal.”

“Except for…” Barton holds up his hand and indicates his skin.

“Right. And I should warn you, it could be that that’s throwing the readings.” He pauses and examines Barton’s face. Apparently finding nothing of concern there, he continues in a brisk, professional tone. “I’d like to take a blood sample, and a skin biopsy, with your permission.”

Barton nods absently, his attention drifting back to Romanoff, whose posture remains wary.

Banner takes a blood kit from the lab table and returns to Barton’s side. “This will be easier if you sit.”

Barton nods at that too, and sits where he’s told. He and Romanoff continue to watch each other while Banner goes through the motions of prepping Barton’s arm for a blood draw. He pauses. “I’m sorry, Clint, it may take a couple of tries to get a vein. I can’t—“

“Right. Don’t worry about it, Doc, I’ve had worse.”

Banner chuckles. “By which you mean I’ve done worse to you already today.” He begins the needle stick, but stops abruptly. “Huh.” He tries again, and there’s a little snap as the needle breaks in two, sending the point skidding off across the floor.

“Huh,” Barton echoes.

Banner puts down the remains of the needle and returns to an examination of Barton’s skin. He palpates the spot on the inside of his elbow, and from Phil’s vantage point the skin seems to bend and shift just as it normally would.

Barton pulls his arm away and reaches for the scalpel on the table next to them. Banner moves to stop him, but not fast enough to keep him from scoring a line down the back of one arm. It doesn’t even leave a scratch in its wake.

“Did you feel that?” Banner asks, and Barton shakes his head.

“Felt the pressure, but no pain. At a certain point the skin stopped giving and just… held.” In one sudden move Clint shifts the knife in his hand and jams it against his thigh. But it slides off his leg and the force of the jab embeds it in the stool just to one side. “I… don’t hate that.” To Phil’s ears the flippant remark sounds more calculated than honest, and he’s sure Clint remains uneasy about what he’s become. A glance at Romanoff confirms that her worry hasn’t eased either. Even if the news so far is good, both of them look ready for another shoe to drop.

As they watch each other in silence, and Banner seems to ponder his next recommendation, Stark leaves his spot at the display screen and heads for the door, stopping just before he reaches it. He turns to look at Rogers. “Do I still need a chaperone, or can I be trusted to raid my own supply cabinet?”

Rogers tears his focus away from Barton and regards Stark carefully. Then he glances to Phil and gives a little nod. Phil gives the question a moment’s thought—the last couple of days have been exhausting, and he’s still far from convinced that Stark’s condition isn’t going to lead to him doing something even more catastrophically reckless than he’s done in the past. But Stark’s got a point that they’re going to have to trust him sooner or later, and Phil’s pretty sure that the sooner they show him that they do, the more likely he is to deserve it. So he gives an indifferent little shrug to Rogers, who nods at Stark. “You know why we had to—“

Stark nods impatiently and disappears out the door before Rogers can finish.

Banner murmurs something to Barton, and Barton considers, and finally nods.

“Thor?” Banner calls. “We could use a hand.”

Thor goes readily. They huddle together, apparently discussing possibilities for using Thor’s strength to see whether it’s possible to get a biopsy of Barton’s new skin.

Phil decides that he hasn’t got much to add to that particular endeavor, and takes a few steps to stand by Romanoff’s side instead. His first impulse is to ask how she is, but he bites back the inquiry. “How do you think he’s holding up?” he asks instead.

She purses her lips. “Not as well as he sounds.”

Phil nods. He doesn’t disagree. For now, though, there’s nothing they can do until they get the whole picture on his condition, and apparently that’s proving more difficult than anticipated.

After a number of awkward attempts and two broken scalpels, Thor does manage to remove a bit of the tough gray skin from Barton’s arm, eliciting an irritated yelp of pain. Not totally invulnerable, then. Phil isn’t sure if that’s good or bad.

When Stark returns, he’s carrying a set of adamantium needles, and with Thor’s help they eventually get a blood sample to go along with the biopsy. After that, Banner looks Barton up and down. “You hungry? Tired?” Barton shakes his head. “A little privacy, maybe?” Barton manages a weary grin at that, and Banner smiles gently. “Enough poking and prodding for now. We’ll run some tests on your samples, but so far I don’t see anything to worry about.”

Barton nods at that, and as Banner packs away his equipment, he stands and looks around uncertainly. His eyes finally land on Phil. “I don’t know if I— I guess I should stay here, until we…” He shrugs, apparently unable to complete the thought.

Phil considers. Theoretically, the whole floor is Hulk-proof, and they’ve got no reason to think that Clint is going to get out of control, or to have anything on the order of the Hulk’s power if he did. Still, all bets remain off at the moment, and Clint would suffer more than any of them if anything happened. “You want to be on your own, you stay here. If you’d be more comfortable in your room, somebody goes with you and somebody stays on the door. We'll have JARVIS monitor either way.” He keeps his eyes fixed on Barton as he speaks, refusing to let his discomfort with the decision show on his face.

Barton nods, as if grateful to Coulson for laying down the law. “Thor, would you mind a little more guard duty?”

Thor nods easily. “I would gladly be of use, though I am sure my strength will not be needed.” He claps Barton on the back. “Your true self is powerful and a glory to behold. I could have told you that it would be thus.”

Phil’s lips quirk a little at the description. But it’s true—the strangely stony look of Barton’s skin was alarming at first, but now that he’s a little more used to it, Phil can see it Thor’s way. The color isn’t uniform, but swirled, veined like elegant gray marble. Clint may never again blend in on the street, in a bar, at a restaurant—and Phil feels a pang of bitter loneliness on his behalf at that thought—but he’s far from monstrous.

“Shall I—“ he begins to offer, but Barton shakes his head.

“I think Nat and I have some business to attend to.”

Phil glances at Romanoff on that, and sees her brittle nod.

Barton gives another uncertain look to Rogers and to Phil, and when neither of them object, he leaves the room, Romanoff and Thor beside him.

Phil stays standing for a long moment, even after Banner and Stark have commandeered Rogers’ help in moving the equipment back to the lab. 

When the room is finally empty, it occurs to him that he owes Fury a report. He digs his phone out of his pocket and makes the call.

“Phil,” Fury’s voice comes over the line, stretched tight as piano wire, “if this isn’t an emergency—“

“No Sir, it’s not.”

Fury closes the line with a little click, and Phil feels a chill run all through his veins. A moment later his phone rings.

“Phil,” Sitwell’s voice comes over the line, “we are up to our eyeballs here. What’s your status?”

“Agent Barton has gone through the transition—thus far there seem to be no dangerous effects, but we’re still monitoring. What’s your situation?

“We’ve got fires breaking out in multiple locations—our guys were already spread thin with existing operational priorities, so we’re scrambling here.”

“Do you need backup? We can spare Thor and Rogers, probably Banner too if you can use him. Even Stark may be good to go if necessary.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the phone, and Phil drums his fingers against his leg as he waits.

Finally Sitwell returns to the line. “Fury says to stay put. We’ll call you if we need you.”

“Can you at least tell me what we’re dealing with?”

“Sorry, Phil. We’re not sure our communications are secure. You’re going to have to just sit tight on this one.”

Then the line goes dead. Phil lets out a long, careful breath, and proceeds to smash his fist into the nearest wall.

~

Natasha keeps Clint in view as they walk the short distance to his room. She nods to Thor as he settles himself in the hallway. He smiles at her and claps Clint on the back again, nothing in his manner suggesting that he’s taking any of this particularly seriously. Maybe he’s right not to, but her life has never been that simple, and much as she’d like to trust that Clint’s transformation is nothing beyond the obvious, she can’t afford to think that way.

So when the door closes behind them, she doesn’t even take a breath before she grabs Clint by the front of his shirt and sweeps his legs out from under him, landing neatly with her knife in one hand and his throat under the other.

“Jesus, Nat, what the actual fuck are you doing?”

It’s a fair question, but not one she can answer if this is going to work. “If you were yourself, you’d know.”

He struggles against her, catches her wrist, and manages to throw her off balance. They roll, fighting more than sparring, though he’s keeping his moves defensive. She gets the upper hand and digs her knife against his ribs.

“Don’t think that’s…” he manages between breaths, “going to do you… much good. New and improved, remember?”

She twists, grabs him by the hair and jerks it back against the floor. The blade twirls in her fingers before coming to a stop just inches above his right eye. “How about now? There’s still part of you that isn’t made of stone.”

Only then does she see what she’s looking for. There’s fear in his eyes, and she knows it’s real. She waits for a heartbeat, two, and finally rolls off, hiding the knife away in its sheath and reaching out to help him up.

He just looks at her hand for a moment, and rises to his feet without grasping it. His eyes don’t leave her face. “You wanted to see if I’d—“

She shakes her head. “Wanted to see if you’ve got any new tricks. Stronger, faster, smarter. Etcetera.”

“And?”

“Definitely not smarter,” she tells him with a grin that’s only partly forced. She lets it slip, and speaks quietly. “Same as always.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “That’s not what you were after. You wanted to see if I’m like Banner. If I’d turn into something else. You don’t think this,” he gestures to his own skin, “is the end of it.”

She doesn’t deny it. “Do you?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. But there’s a problem with your experimental method.”

“And that is?”

His lips form a wry smile that looks out of place in the marble of his skin. “Knew you wouldn’t do it—I trust you.”

She draws her lips up in a smile of her own, but she doesn’t feel it. “That always is your problem.”

“Not a problem.”

“It might be.”

He shakes his head, doesn’t answer. A simple, sincere confidence informs his expression, and something about it twists at her heart, and makes her itch to do what she’s already decided she has to.

“You trusted your brother too.”

He winces at that, and she almost regrets it.

“And Trickshot. How’d that work out for you?”

“Nat—“ His voice carries a warning, underlined by old sorrow.

“Not all that well,” she answers for him. “You really think I won’t do the same? You know where I come from. You think you fixed me? You think you _reformed_ me?” She takes a couple of deliberate steps towards him, backing him against the wall. “You think I wake up every morning with a song in my heart about how much I want to be a good guy, spend my days rescuing orphans and puppies?” She forces her lips into a little sneer, and tries not to let the pain in his eyes touch her. “You think I _believe_ in any of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s sanctimonious horseshit?” She gives him a little shove and turns away. “You think I won’t take your old mentor’s fine example the first time it gives me an advantage?” She pulls her knife back out of its sheath and tosses it idly in one hand as she shifts back to meet his eyes. “After all, you went over to Loki with nothing but a touch of his pretty little wand. All those agents…” she lets her voice trail off with a little tsking sound.

She sees his punch coming a mile off, and for an instant she wishes she could let it land. God knows he deserves to get one in. But she doubts it’s really what he wants, so she deflects the blow, and then next one, as wild as the first.

He meets her eyes and she thinks he sees the apology there. She voices it anyway. “I’m sorry. I had to know.”

“Fucking Hell, Nat.” He shakes his head, irritation overtaking anger.

“You passed,” she offers. “No big green—nothing but a punch, and not a particularly good one.” She lets her lips spread in a teasing smile.

He looks at her a long time before matching her expression. But even then he sobers quickly. “I didn’t pass anything. I knew you didn’t mean a word of it. I know you.”

Her smile turns sad, and she wonders if he can tell. She may not have meant every word, but they weren’t all lies, either. Stubborn as he is, he’ll never believe that, and now isn’t the time to try to convince him. “That swing you took at me says different.”

He sinks down to sit on the carpet, letting his head fall back against the wall. “Yeah, well, I’ll give you this, you know where the bodies are buried. If anybody can get a rise out of me, it’s you.”

She settles beside him, and they sit quietly, shoulder to shoulder.

A few minutes pass before she turns to him again. "You hungry? Want a drink?"

He shakes his head, and his eyes stay fixed on some point on the ceiling.

She gives him a little longer, and finally snags his duffle. She glances at him to see if he’s got any objection, but if he does he doesn’t say so. She unzips one pocket and quickly fishes out a deck of cards—just where she knew he’d keep it. 

He cracks a little smile when she holds it up. She takes it for agreement and sorts through, discarding the cards they don't need, and deals.

They play a couple of hands, speaking only when it's necessary for the game. Keeping track of the cards that have been played doesn't demand all of her attention, but it takes up enough of it that she can mostly distract herself from what she just did to him. She hopes he feels the same.

The third hand gets vicious, but when he curses her it's with humor in his voice, and she smiles and curses him right back, the words like sugar on her lips.

It's then that she notices a slight warmth to the gray tone of his skin. She says nothing, not entirely convinced that she didn't imagine the shift. But a few minutes later he’s back to his usual tan, and it's impossible to deny. Neither of them say anything, and they maintain the rhythm of the game, as if disrupting it might break some spell.

When they've played a few more hands like that, both sets of eyes flicking between their game and Clint's complexion, he stops, and puts down his cards. "Okay," he ventures, "not sure what to do with this."

"Yeah," she agrees. "Can I—?" She reaches out to touch his hand, and he nods.

His skin is warm under her fingers, but that was true when his skin looked like stone too. Only one difference to test, really. She runs her fingernail over the back of his wrist, to see if she can leave a mark.

His skin splits, and bright red blood wells up.

Before she can react, he does. He grabs her hand and twists in a sharp motion that she's sure is borne entirely of reflex. Hot pain shoots through her wrist as she pulls it away. She brings it close to her chest and probes the bones and tendons with her other hand—pain, and probably swelling to come, but she's reasonably sure it isn't broken.

"Did I— Shit, Nat, I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine. I didn't mean to..." She eyes the scratch along the back of his arm, still bleeding a little. "That shouldn't have— I didn't mean to break the skin."

"And I didn't mean to break your wrist."

"You didn't."

He eyes the way she's still cradling the wrist and gives her a skeptical look.

"I think it's just a sprain."

"Oh, well then." He reaches out to examine it, but glances down at his hands and pulls them back. They remain his usual—his old usual—tone, but he regards them warily anyway. He pauses for a minute, eyes unfocused in thought. Then he reaches up to the top of the desk, and feels around for a moment. When he brings his hand down, he’s got a letter opener in his grip. He watches his hand like it belongs to someone else as his fingers and thumb press on the little knife, bending it easily.

He meets her eyes, and she reaches out to take the bit of metal. She tries to bend it back, but it doesn’t budge. She examines it, unsure what it’s made of, but it’s as strong as steel at least, and it isn’t thin. She raises an eyebrow.

Still in silence, Clint's hand moves again, this time grasping the heavy wood of the desk itself. It moves easily, the pens and do-dads sliding to the ground. He stands, shifts to take the other side in his grip and lifts the whole thing a couple of feet off the ground. He turns back to look at her, almost as if he's forgotten that he's still holding it. "Huh.”

Natasha just watches him for a moment, looking for any sign of strain, any shift to his skin tone or some other clue about what’s happened. She doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary, other than a hundred seventy pound man holding a four hundred pound desk like it was an armload of pillows. “Maybe we should talk to Banner,” she suggests finally.

"Yeah." He puts the desk down. “Besides, we should have him take a look at your wrist.”

She can’t possibly care about that at the moment, but she agrees anyway. “JARVIS, can you have Dr. Banner come by?”

“I will convey your request. Shall I tell him that the matter is urgent?”

They share a look. “No,” Clint tells the A.I. “Just tell him to get here when he can.”

“Of course.”

Banner arrives less than a minute later anyway, Stark and Rogers both at his side, Coulson on their heels. All four of them rush in, worry on every face. Thor stands uncertainly in the doorway. They’ve barely had a chance to get a look at Clint before his complexion starts to darken, its warm color replaced by that unsettling gray.

Banner stops as soon as he takes in what's happening, and puts out an arm to keep the others back. "You OK?"

He shrugs. "Fine. You know, more or less."

"Care to be a little more informative?"

Clint hesitates.

"'No' is an acceptable response.”

"I, uh, I kind of dropped the whole gargoyle routine for a bit. Normal skin, like you saw."

Banner nods absently, obviously working to fit the new information into his understanding of Clint’s condition. “So the effects of the transition are intermittent.”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly, uh, back to normal.”

Banner just watches him expectantly. The others keep their eyes on him as well, and none of them speak.

Clint ducks his head. “I hurt Nat— by accident. I think the serum made me… stronger.”

“You ‘think’?” Natasha snorts. “Clint, that desk must weigh four hundred pounds, and you picked it up like it was nothing.”

Banner’s eyebrows shoot up. “That desk?”

“Yeah,” Clint confirms. He moves to lift it again, but this time he seems to put in all his effort, and it barely budges. “OK. Well, apparently that comes and goes too.”

Banner nods, as if he were expecting that. “Anything else?”

“Uh,” Clint glances at Natasha.

“His skin was like tissue paper. I scratched him—broke the skin without meaning to.”

“And now?” Banner asks.

Clint holds his arm out to her without being asked, and after a moment’s hesitation she slides her fingernail along the back of his hand. This time it has no effect whatsoever.

“What do you think, Doc?” he asks.

Banner shrugs helplessly. “Your guess is as good as mine. It may take time for your… symptoms to settle down and become predictable. When I—“ He looks away. “After my incident, the other guy came out more or less at random for a couple of weeks.” He actually smiles a little, the expression not as bitter as it might have been. “Then again, I was pretty pissed at the time. So hopefully I’m not the model.”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees, and then winces as he realizes how it must sound to Banner. “Not that—“

But Banner just chuckles. “Don’t worry about it.” He glances at Natasha. “Want me to take a look at that wrist?”

She blinks. She thought she was holding it naturally enough that he wouldn’t see it, but apparently he’s got a better eye than she expected. “Sure, Doc, thanks.”

She holds up the injured arm and he examines it for a moment. 

“It doesn’t seem to be broken, but we should run some tests—I wouldn’t recommend an X-ray, under the circumstances, but we’ve got alternatives in the lab to make sure you don’t have a hairline fracture. I can—“

“Can it wait? I’d just as well stick around here for a bit.”

Banner nods. “I’ll get you an ice pack and a bandage,“ he murmurs, half under his breath, as he turns to leave.

“Don’t bother.” Stark darts to the bedroom, and Natasha begins to object on Clint’s behalf, but she’s barely managed to open her mouth when Stark returns with a sizeable first aid kit. He grins at Banner. “Each guest room in Stark Tower is equipped with every amenity…”

Banner flushes at that, and Natasha assumes there’s a story there, but for the moment she doesn’t give a damn. The kit proves to have a chemical ice pack and a bandage, and Banner activates the former and carefully binds her wrist with the latter.

“Thanks, Doc,” she tells him as he finishes his work. She glances at Clint, who shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. “I think we’re done here?” she suggests to Banner and the others, and Banner murmurs his agreement and shoos Stark and Rogers out. 

Coulson lingers for a moment. “I’ll bring some dinner by,” he promises.

He’s true to his word, returning an hour later with a pan of macaroni and cheese—Clint’s recipe, executed by Rogers, apparently, the fact of which seems to tickle Coulson pink—along with roast chicken and salad and some of Stark’s very good bourbon.

She’s a little surprised that Coulson brought in that last, under the circumstances, but she probably shouldn’t have been. He’s obviously trying hard to communicate to Clint that he’s not worried about the transition, that he trusts him the same way he always did. She wonders if he’s already watched the video feed of her doing just the opposite, trying to make Clint betray himself, reveal any effect of the serum that he hadn’t shown yet.

She doesn’t mind being the bad cop. She usually ends up in the other role, deemed sympathetic merely because she’s female and pretty, and it’s never suited her particularly well. Still, guilt over her confrontation with Clint gnaws at her, and she almost wishes she hadn’t done it. But she knows, now, almost for sure that there’s no other shoe waiting to drop, that what she sees in Clint’s new condition is what he is, and nothing worse is coming.

It was worth hurting him, to know that. For him to know it too. That’s what she tells herself, anyway.

His tough-as-nails skin stays through the first part of the meal, but as they eat and talk and drink it fades to his usual color, and this time Natasha feels no urge to test it out, to call in Banner for his opinion or discuss the matter at length with Clint.

He’s probably going to have to think about it harder at some point—figure out if he can shift at will from strong to invulnerable and back again—but for now he seems content to pretend that he’s his old self, and as long as that’s what he wants, that’s what she’ll give him.

The food is long gone and the bourbon going fast when Clint brings the conversation back to the serum, and it’s with a question he must know the answer to. He asks it anyway, and she isn’t sure why.

“So when are you going to do it, Nat? Bite the bullet? ‘Cause I can tell you, this… well, it kind of sucks, but it’s a hell of a lot better than the waiting.”

She regards him for a long moment, her gaze as hard as she can make it. “You know better than to ask me that.”

He looks away, abashed, as he ought to be. "Yeah, OK, we wait until Banner and Stark come up with something. And they will. But, Nat, even if they don't—“ his eyes are so kind when they fix on her, it almost hurts. “It's better when it's over."

"It is for you,” she tells him softly. “But you know I'm never going to do what you did." Her lips twist in what she knows is a mockery of a smile. "You wouldn't thank me for it afterwards if I did, and you know that too."

"No, I don't."

She looks at Coulson. "But you do."

He meets her eyes and gives a little shake of his head. "No. But I know you think it's true."

Her smile fades, but she can still feel a bitter ghost of it on her lips. She's fooled the both of them a little too well. She's good—she's always been good, she was made that way—but they're good too, and she still isn't entirely sure how she convinced them so completely that she poses no threat to them, to S.H.I.E.L.D., to the world. The both of them live their lives under constant threat. They look for every possible danger, craft strategies to combat every risk. They shouldn't be sentimental, and by and large they aren't.

But they trust her. On some level, Clint trusted her that first time they spoke, and how a man who trusts so unwisely hasn't ended up dead in some back alley she doesn't know. It's not for lack of trying. She can't say when Coulson began to trust her for himself, and not merely as an extension of the confidence he placed in Clint—she's wondered often, but never known for sure. What she does know is that he trusts her now, nearly as much as Clint does.

Neither of them should. Neither of them know the truth of her, the hollow core that every day fails to yearn for truth or justice, and wants only her own survival. She doesn't try to tell them—they won't believe her no matter how many times she explains, and the more time they spend arguing her goodness the more they believe in it. It's a fantasy, and maybe even they knew it at first. But they think that their belief has breathed life into it, made it real. 

She wishes that they were right.

But she knows better.


	15. Ready or Not (here we go)

Bruce watches out of the corner of his eye as Tony's fingers fly over his display. Tony stares intently at his work—if he notices Bruce's sidelong gaze he doesn't give any indication.

From the little he can see from this angle, Bruce is pretty sure Tony's getting into some system or other to which he was not invited. Which isn't exactly a new phenomenon, and isn't necessarily related to his condition. Lights shift almost languidly on Tony's skin, and his expression speaks of concentration, but lacks any of the mania it's held on some of Tony's darker hours of the past few days.

Not for the first time, Bruce considers asking him what he's up to, but again rejects the impulse. Tony will know that more than simple curiosity motivates the question, and Bruce would rather not to give him the idea that he still worries about Tony's behavior, however accurate such an idea might be.

Tony is a grown man, and one who has been working remarkably hard to stay within bounds—bounds he sets for himself, admittedly, and with something less than the usual regard for legalities, but bounds nonetheless. Coulson and the others may be expecting Bruce to keep closer tabs on Tony than he is, but if so they should really know better. A man needs some privacy, some independence and some breathing room free of quasi-governmental intrusion, and Bruce knows that more keenly than most.

Whatever Tony's up to, he's working hard. He worries absently at his lower lip while his fingers sketch out a new program architecture and summon the specific modules to fill it in. His work is swift and elegant, and Bruce can't hide the smile on his own lips.

He hasn't spoken with Tony about what there is between them, hasn't even spent much time in his own head trying to decipher the rules or taxonomies of their new relationship. He reminds himself as often as he can not to hope for more than he can reasonably expect, and not to expect more than nothing. Tony has no particular reason to keep him around after this whole serum mess is through, even if he's suggested otherwise. Just because he's proffered the invitation, it doesn't mean that Tony would think anything of taking it back.

Because Tony, Bruce reminds himself, doesn't know what it means to want something, to need something with his whole self, and lose it anyway. Or, no, that isn't exactly true. God knows that Tony hasn't had an easy time, that his trust has been abused, his brilliance exploited, his heart almost literally cut from his chest. And far be it from Bruce to compare their wounds, their pasts, their scars. But it remains the fact that Tony surely doesn't understand what it would mean to Bruce to rely on his offer of a home, a relationship, a _life_ here and have it torn away.

So Bruce reminds himself not to expect anything, but gives himself free reign to enjoy what he has while he’s got it. He can’t say he deserves that much, but he’s far too selfish to give it up any sooner than he has to.

He still hasn’t managed to shift his attention from Tony’s work to his own when the lab doors open and Natasha enters. By all appearances Tony ignores her—still intent on whatever it is that he’s doing—but Bruce assumes he’s paying attention.

Bruce’s eye flicks to her wrist, expertly bound and held as if it’s not causing her much pain. “Ready to get that checked out?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Doc.”

He takes another look at the wrist—a little swollen, but it still looks more like a sprain than a break. He puts the hand through their makeshift MRI anyway, looks over the image, and nods. “No fracture—just a moderate sprain. Rest it, keep it elevated when you can. I’m sure you know the drill.”

“Thanks,” she says again, and glances over to the display screen Bruce was using when she arrived. “Is that—?”

Bruce nods. “It’s his readings. They’re very helpful—we may actually get somewhere this time.” He winces, remembering that this means more to her than it does to any of them, now. “No promises,” he tells her softly.

She nods. “But he’s… OK?”

“By all appearances. The serum’s incredible. It absorbed all the radiation we put in there, sucked it up like a sponge, used it all for the transformation. His blood is normal—no remaining radioactivity at all.” Bruce has thus far resisted the temptation to focus his research on why it didn’t work that way for him, but he’ll get to that eventually. “His skin is fascinating, but seems stable. I don’t foresee any problems, other than—“ He looks away. “I’m sure it isn’t easy.”

When he glances up, she gives an absent nod, and he realizes that whatever she intended as the thrust of her question, he didn’t answer it. Indecision colors her face, and it occurs to him to wonder if it's genuine, or if she's adopted the expression in hopes that he'll ask, give her an opening to broach some conversation. It could be both, he supposes. Either way, he'll give her what she's looking for if he can. "Is there..." he trails off, unsure of what he wants to say, and tries a new tack. "How are things going with him?"

She frowns, glances away. “It’s supposed to be based on who he is?”

“’Supposed’ would be a strong word. But our best theory was that the patterns in the cingulate cortex channel the transformation.”

“And that means what, exactly?”

“The cingulate cortex is where our sense of self appears to be located, within the brain. So those patterns… replicate themselves.” He shrugs. “That’s what we think. But obviously it isn’t all that literal.” He allows himself a small smile. “I may have been angry before the incident, but there was never anything especially green about me.”

She doesn’t answer, and he gets the sense that she needs a moment to process that. He gives it to her, glancing over the readings on his display screen.

After a minute or two, he breaks the silence. “What do you think?”

She pauses for a moment more before answering. “I think it suits him. I think he’s got good reasons to protect himself. And—“ She looks away.

He waits for her to continue, sure she’ll do it on her own time if she wants to do it at all.

She meets his eyes. “He’s at his best when he trusts people. But so vulnerable.” Her sad little smile tugs at something inside him, and he matches it with his own.

“He’s a good man.”

She nods. “Not like us.”

He tries to laugh at that. “Speak for yourself.” He looks away, then back at her. “We’re better than we should have been, all told.”

“Speak for yourself,” she echoes. She glances at the door, but doesn’t move. There's clearly another question on her mind.

He gives her a little longer, and then turns back to his work. A minute later she still hasn’t moved. "Was there anything else?" He's not much of a therapist, and he's run out of subtle options for trying to coax her into spitting it out.

She studies him again, her lips pressed into a line and her eyes hard. When she speaks, it's hardly more than a whisper. "Do you regret..." she looks away, takes a breath, and then looks back at him and speaks brusquely. "When you thought you couldn't control the Hulk, you tried to kill yourself."

If it's a question, it's one she already knows the answer to. He nods anyway. "Yeah.” He can't help but remember the weight of the gun, the way his hand trembled, the sharp ache he felt when he brought it to his lips. The little surge of hope and terror as he squeezed the trigger.

"Do you wish— do you wish you’d done it before, when you had the chance?"

"No." The answer comes to his lips faster than he would have expected, with an easy certainty that he wouldn't have predicted.

She searches his face for any tell, any sign that it's a lie, that he has reservations that he isn't expressing.

He searches himself for the same thing. She deserves the truth. He'd like to categorically deny the possibility that suicide is on the options list for her, to assure her that there's no chance that it’s better than the alternative. But he can’t. "If you asked me a year ago, before the Chitauri and everything, you might have gotten a different answer,” he tells her softly. “And there may come a time, again, when I wish for that. I don't know how long I'm going to live, or what's going to happen." Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce notes that Tony's hands have stilled, and he's painfully aware that Tony is listening to every word. He forces himself to continue anyway, keeping his focus on Natasha. "But right now, today?” he shrugs, unable to come up with the right words for what he means. He settles on simplicity. “I’m glad I’m still here.”

She flicks her eyes at Tony in a pointed gesture, and he smiles a little in spite of himself. Tony resumes his work and doesn’t look at either of them, but Bruce is sure he’s still paying attention.

“That isn’t why.” She gives him a skeptical look, and his smile grows a little wider before he manages to control his expression. “Doesn’t hurt, but it isn’t why. My control is better. My life is better. This,” he gestures at the lab, “is good, but Greenland was good too. So the way the other guy kept me from... doing what I tried to do? Today it feels like a gift." He shrugs. "I try not to worry about tomorrow."

"Under the circumstances, I don't think I get to think that way."

"No, I guess not." He reaches out and places one hand on her arm, keeping the touch light. "But—" He meets her eyes. "Don't." He looks away. "Probably not looking for life advice from the guy who turned himself into a giant green rage monster, but if you were, that's it—don’t."

She glances away, but there’s something in her face that looks like relief. "Yeah. Thanks Doc."

They stand in silence for a long moment. He watches her shift from foot to foot, as if still waging some internal battle over whether to stay or go. Tony resolves it for her by letting out a long string of curses, his eyes not leaving the display in front of him.

Bruce moves to see what he's doing. Tony's frustration having given him an excuse to look, he's able to figure it out quickly. "You're spying on S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

"Uh, yeah? When am I not? But that's not the interesting thing." Tony's attention shifts to Natasha. "Did you know about this?"

She looks over his screen and her skin pales. "No. This is all— it's all from the last twenty-four hours."

"Yeah," Tony agrees.

"How many..." Bruce surveys the list of newly identified threats and responsive deployments. "This has to be more than usual."

Natasha mutters something in Russian that he's pretty sure is obscene. "A lot more. And they're all over the place. This was planned."

"Well, yeah." Tony swivels to look at the two of them instead of the screen "Question is, did it work? Just how thin is this going to spread SHIELD out?"

Natasha swallows. "Very."

“OK then. So now we just have to figure out what’s the diversion and what’s the main event."

Bruce frowns. This is really not his area. "And how do we do that?"

Tony doesn't answer. He gives Natasha a look, as if he's actually deferring to her judgment.

But she just shakes her head. "I don't know."

~

Clint wakes in his usual bed in Stark Tower, and for a moment tries to let himself enjoy the illusion that the previous day was nothing but a particularly vivid dream. But it doesn't really work—he knows better from the moment he returns to consciousness.

When he opens his eyes, they seek out his hands, and he swallows hard. For all the world it looks as if they’ve been replaced by a meticulous sculptor, working in some kind of cheap grey stone. But when he flexes them, when his fingers tap against the bed or flicker in the air, they move just as they always have. It's surreal enough to almost feel like the dream he wishes it were.

He shouldn't wish that. He got off easy, and he knows it. Even with Nat pushing every button he has, nothing happened—he stayed himself. And hell, the stone thing is gonna be a ridiculous advantage on the field. He's been stabbed and shot often enough, and he doesn't exactly regret the idea of being practically impervious to both.

And as camouflage, well, that'll depend, but as he runs old missions through his head, he can't think of many where looking like a rock or a statue wouldn't have come in handy, or at least been a wash. For those few, well, undercover's never been his favorite anyway. And, fuck it, it isn't like he socializes with anybody outside of SHIELD anyway. He can't remember the last time he just relaxed at a restaurant or bar like some civilian.

Which is kind of too bad, he supposes. It's not like he's going to get another chance.

He shouldn’t wallow. Hell, even Banner goes out in the world, and God knows his other half is a little worse than Clint’s. Maybe Clint can pull together his normal-looking self for long enough to appear in public now and then.

And then probably bleed out from a fucking paper cut.

There he goes wallowing again. He’s entitled to a little of that, but he needs to be done with it now. He has things to do. He itches for some target practice, to make sure nothing about the change affected his aim. And then, his stomach reminds him, breakfast might be in order.

He pulls himself out of bed and makes it halfway to the bathroom before he remembers that Coulson and Natasha both agreed to stay in his suite for the night. He’s grateful that they’re watching him, that they won’t let him get out of control and do anything he’d regret. But at the same time it can’t help but sting that they agree it might be necessary. Even if he believes it more than they do.

He leans out the doorway to the front room to see Coulson sitting in an armchair, frowning at his tablet. Natasha’s nowhere to be seen.

Coulson glances up. "She went to get her wrist looked at. Voluntarily and everything."

"Nat went to get medical care voluntarily? For a sprained wrist?"

He cracks a smile. "I'm worried too," he deadpans. He stands, shakes his head. "I think she had some other questions for Banner."

Right. Clint nods at that.

"You're looking..." Coulson pauses a moment, gesturing at Clint and searching for the right word before settling on "well."

Clint looks down and realizes that for the moment he's back to his natural complexion. He can't resist the temptation to try out his strength, and casually lifts one end of the couch up to shoulder level. It feels like it weighs nothing—like it's a styrofoam prop, the kind they use in movies. "OK," he admits, "that's pretty cool."

Coulson smiles, but there's a strain to it.

He puts the couch down. "So, I was figuring on a shower, and then maybe hit the Hulk room for some target practice. If that's OK." Clint looks Coulson over. Something has him worried, but he seems reluctant to say what. "Look, if I'm supposed to stay put, you can tell me. I get it. I'm still... new."

Coulson shakes his head. "No, no problem with target practice. I'll go with." He doesn't meet Clint's eyes, staring grimly at the blank screen of his tablet.

"Everything OK?"

"Not especially. I'm getting next to nothing from S.H.I.E.L.D. It's a mess, and apparently there's reason not to trust the com system. So..."

That explains his distress. "So you don't know what's going on."

"Right. But I've got a feeling that none of it’s good."

"So what do we do?"

Coulson glares at the tablet again. "We sit tight. Apparently."

Clint can't keep a little smirk from his lips. "No change then."

"Right." He moves to put the tablet down, and then turns back to Clint. "You might as well go for that shower."

Clint does, stripping fast and stepping into the spray of water before it has a chance to warm up—or before it should have a chance. Actually the showers in Stark Tower come up to temperature all but instantly, and Clint spares a thought to regret that he'll be going back to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s facilities when all this is over. Still, it's better than never being able to leave the Tower again.

He soaps up quickly, running his hands over his skin, which went back to the grayish cast as soon as he entered the bathroom. Alone and naked, he takes a moment to really look at himself. The stone appearance goes all the way down, which is disconcerting, but everything seems to function as it always did. He cracks a grin, considering the obvious jokes and pick-up lines, but it fades fast as he wonders when he'll get a chance to use them. There are, he supposes, always people who get off on the weird and otherworldly. Not exactly the dating strategy he would have preferred.

But more than his worries about how other people will see him is the sheer oddness of how he sees himself. His body may be the right shape, it may move when he tells it to, respond as it always did, but it’s hard to feel like it’s really him.

He shuts off the shower and dresses quickly, looking at himself as little a possible. He grabs his bow and quiver and strides into the front room. He nods at Coulson, who makes no objection as Clint continues toward the door and out.

The Hulk room is empty when they reach it, and Coulson quickly settles in a corner with his tablet. Clint flicks his bow open and ready and moves to draw. The motion is too fast, too easy, and he realizes that he's stronger than he should be. He slows down, forces himself to attend to the familiar motion as he brings the fletching to his chin, aims, releases. The arrow flies true, embedding itself in the wall just where he wanted it. That's something then.

He fires off a couple more arrows, and quickly relearns his usual rhythms. With this bow his strength isn't much of an asset, but it isn't a hindrance either.

He needs to know if the stone thing is the same or not, but that doesn't seem to be in the cards at the moment. He tries to focus, imagines his skin gone gray and hard, willing it to happen, but nothing changes. He closes his eyes and thinks back on his transformation, on the moment yesterday when the others rushed in to see his new tricks and the hard skin drew up around him fast. When he opens his eyes he remains unchanged.

He turns back to face Coulson, who looks up from his tablet with a wan smile.

"How's it feel?"

"It feels... good."

"Glad to hear it." His tone is distracted, tense, and almost sad.

"What's up?"

"Nothing new." Which is to say, they're still in the middle of a disaster, and still unable to do a damned thing to help.

There's a little chime at the door. "Captain Rogers wishes to inquire whether his presence would be welcome."

Coulson waits for his answer, and Clint shrugs. Might as well let somebody else watch the freakshow.

Coulson lets the hand holding the tablet fall to is side. "Tell him to come on in."

Steve steps through the door, and Clint watches his face, wary of any sign of distaste or distrust. A man who came through the process looking like Steve does couldn't help but feel superior to a man who came out of it like some kind of freak. Steve's a good guy, and Clint's honored to have the chance to know him as a person and not just as a icon, but he knows better than to take the man’s amiable charm for more than it is.

Steve smiles at them both, his expression tight, but carrying real warmth.

"What's up, Cap?"

"Nothing much. Little too quiet, if you ask me."

"Worried what Baker's up to?"

"Aren't we all?"

Clint has to agree to that.

"How's the shooting going? Any problems from the..." He trails off, gesturing vaguely at Clint.

"Hard to say. Seems ok when I'm like this, but—“ he glances down and realizes that he’s changed again. Fuck, that’s creepy. “Gimme a minute.” He turns his attention back to his bow. He hesitates on the first draw, needing to consciously remember how much force he needs to use, but he releases smoothly and the arrow embeds itself just where he wants it. He fires off three more in quick succession, and they too go just where he needs them to. When he turns back to Steve it’s with a grin on his face. “It’s going pretty well.”

Steve smiles. “Glad to hear it. And how’s everything else?”

Clint shrugs. “Can’t complain.”

“You can if you want to.”

He laughs. "Yeah, right. I totally get to bitch to the guy who fought the good fight and spent the better part of a century in cold storage."

"If it makes you feel better, you could bitch to the guy who got lucky as hell, handed a body he never earned."

Steve keeps his tone light, but Clint can hear the guilt underneath. It shouldn't be a surprise. Cap's a person just like any other—he's got his own crap like everybody else. 

But more than that—he's willing to share it to try to alleviate some of Clint's unease.

He considers it, and takes advantage, just a little bit. "It's gonna suck, looking like this," he admits.

Steve nods. "I'd think."

Clint chuckles. There’s something about the blunt agreement that soothes him. As if commiseration were really all he needed at the moment. “Thanks, Cap.” He takes another shot, just for the hell of it, and collapses his bow. “Breakfast?”

The three of them make it halfway to the kitchen before JARVIS interrupts with a summons to the lab.

When they arrive, Banner, Tony, and Natasha are already huddled around a display screen, and Thor stands to the side, watching over Natasha’s shoulder.

Coulson moves to Natasha’s other side and reviews the screen. “Is that—“

Tony doesn't turn to look at him. “Yes. I'm doing you a favor, don't complain.”

“You’re the one monitoring S.H.I.E.L.D.’s coms.”

“And your internal databases. And the helicarrier and most of the quinjets.”

Coulson’s eyes squeeze shut for a moment. “You know that they’ve been refusing to tell me anything since yesterday because they know someone got into the system.”

“You know, now that you mention it, I think I overheard something about that.” Stark keeps his face more or less straight, but there’s a sparkle to his eye that matches the lights playing across his skin. “You might be interested to know that I’m also the one keeping Baker out _and_ digging into her communications channels. If I weren’t wasting my time with that, your people wouldn’t have known I was there in the first place.”

Coulson takes a breath and opens his mouth to reply, but Natasha cuts him off.

“We’ve got bigger fish to fry, Sir. Look at this.” She gestures at the screen, and they all stop to see what she means.

A list of threats and deployments, apparently cobbled together from whatever communications and files Tony got himself into, fills the display. It only takes a moment for Clint to realize that the situation is worse than even Coulson knew. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Natasha agrees. “But it gets worse.” She taps another display area, and a map appears. She taps again and a series of red dots settle, spread out over the northeastern United States and southeastern Canada.

“The disturbances,” Coulson guesses.

“Right. And our response.” Lines draw themselves in, showing agents and materiel moving from various bases to address the threats. But a conspicuous pattern emerges around New York—many lines heading out, but none coming in.

Clint swallows. “She’s diverting all our guys out of the region.”

“So far no reported issues in the area,” Tony notes, “but what are the odds that she couldn’t find any crackpots to work with in the city?”

“Maybe she just figured New York could use a break for once,” Clint suggests.

Tony laughs at that. “Right.” He glances at his other screen, where data streaks by faster than Clint can even try to read it. “Still trying to get into her records and communications—no joy yet on her end game.”

“But it’ll be in the city,” Clint guesses.

“That’s the thinking,” Natasha agrees.

“JARVIS is monitoring for signs of anything unusual in the area. Nothing yet there either.” Tony turns to look at Coulson. “I assume there's no way that S.H.I.E.L.D. can get personnel back here, under the circumstances?"

Coulson examines the map. "They didn't miss this. But with everything going at once—"

"They can't ignore the ongoing problem for a threat that hasn't materialized yet," Steve finishes.

"Hopefully the NYPD's up for this. JARVIS, fill Pepper in, get her to liaise with the authorities, keep them in the loop."

"Yes, Sir."

Natasha examines the map again. "Do we have anybody we haven't mobilized? James? Any of his friends?"

Tony shakes his head. "Everybody we've got is in the field somewhere or other."

"How are there this many threats at once?" Thor twirls his hammer in one hand, eyes narrowed in impatience.

Clint reviews the list of suspects and snorts. "Most of them look like looney toons—basket cases with big dreams and not much of anything in the way of follow through. Even with Baker's help half these guys aren't going to amount to anything."

Natasha nods. "If only we knew which half."

"Right."

An alert appears on Tony's screen. "Got something. It's a new communication. From her." He flicks the screen and Baker's voice fills the room with one short phrase. 

"Olly olly oxen free."

Clint tenses. "That... can't mean anything good."

"No," Tony agrees, "villains quoting schoolchildren: never a good sign." He shifts to the map. "JARVIS, you got anything yet?"

"Not at this ti— correction, 911 is receiving several calls from commuters on the Triborough Bridge of a man and woman wielding unusual firearms."

Steve looks around. "I should go."

"It might be a diversion," Tony points out.

Natasha nods. "Or a trap."

"Or a trap," Tony agrees. 

"Does it matter?" Steve sounds tired. "Either way there must be hundreds of unarmed civilians on that bridge. We can’t ignore it.”

None of them can argue with that.

Coulson examines the map on the screen, and swipes it to zoom in on the city. A red dot has appeared on the Triborough, and another to the north of it. "JARVIS, what's this one?"

"A City University research facility is reporting masked intruders in its biohazard department."

Another dot pops up, and JARVIS doesn't wait to be asked. "In addition, an analysis of social media descriptors suggests that several of the captive animals at the Bronx Zoo have begun exhibiting highly unusual and potentially lethal behaviors."

Steve glares at the screen for a moment before turning to the others. "Banner, Stark, you take the research facility."

"I don't think the other guy's going to be a good fit on that one,” Banner objects.

"Hopefully it won't come to that. You can handle yourself, and we might need your expertise to figure out what they want and clean things up." Steve turns to Thor and Coulson. "Take care of whatever's on the Triborough. Natasha, Clint—we’ll deal with the zoo." 

Clint hesitates. "I'm allowed out already?"

Coulson regards him solemnly. "We need you. If you're up for it." His face relaxes into what’s almost a smile. "Definitely less worried about you than Stark."

"I'm sitting right here.” Tony’s gaze fixes on the display as he makes a few adjustments. “Almost done,” he mutters, but then shrugs. “Nevermind, I’ll finish it from the air. I'm good to go."

"I'm not." Natasha's voice cuts into the conversation, hard as ice. "I stay put. This has to be a trap. I can't risk it."

Steve fixes her with a hard look. "We've got bigger problems than—"

Her voice doesn't thaw. "Don’t be so sure."

Steve waits for a moment, and then nods. "OK. Monitor from here. Keep us up to date, keep Pepper in the loop." He looks at the others. "Let's get a move on."

The group disperses quickly, everyone headed for weapons or armor or transport. Natasha settles herself in front of the viewscreens and scans through the programs and information streams Tony left running. 

Clint hesitates. He’s already got all the gear he really needs, and he can’t quite pull his eyes away from the tension in Natasha’s frame.

She’s not wrong. Some of this probably is a trap. Or a diversion—if the Tower weren’t the safest place in the city, he’d hesitate to leave her here alone. Not that she’d thank him for that thought. 

Even leaving everything else aside, he can’t help but ache at the depth of her fear, her certainty that her transition will be a disaster, for her and for everyone else. He does hope that she can stay clear, can wait until Banner comes up with a fix. But he realizes, now, that even if that happens, even if her inner self will never be bared to the world, she’ll always fear it anyway. Catalyst or no, the serum’s already exposed that much.

She waits for a moment, as if hoping he’ll leave. When he doesn’t, she slides off her chair and turns to meet his eyes, arms crossed and back straight. "I know what you're going to say, and you know what I’m going to say, so let’s save us both the time. I can't risk it, and I won't."

He takes a couple of steps, closing the distance between them. “I believe you. Everything you said about what you are on the inside, how you feel every day, I buy it all. But on the outside—what you _do_ —that’s you too, you know. You ask me, that counts a hell of a lot more.”

She doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t wait. A minute later he’s caught up with the others at the quinjet, where they strap in. Clint swallows. The fights they’re heading for are ones he takes seriously. He regrets that Natasha isn’t beside him. And when he glances down at his hands, he still doesn’t quite believe that they’re his own. But in spite of all that, as they lift off, leaving the Tower for the first time in weeks, he can’t help but feel free.


	16. What Doesn’t Bend Breaks (what doesn’t break bends, eventually)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *bites nails* Here we go...

When Steve and Clint arrive at the zoo, most of the civilians have gone already. Two ambulances sit outside the wrought iron gates, staff busily attending to bites and broken bones, but no one seems to be seriously hurt.

They find the gates locked, but it takes only a moment to scale them.

Once inside, Steve surveys the scene. An ice cream cart lies in the middle of the entryway, spilling brightly colored popsicles over the pavement. Purses, backpacks, and assorted trash dot the walkways where people must have dropped them in their haste to escape. Nothing seems to move, and Steve shares a grim look with Clint.

"Get to the best vantage point you can, tranq anything too big for the zoo staff to handle. I’ll secure the perimeter, make sure nothing gets out into the city.”

Clint nods and darts into a building, hugging the shadows. Steve spares a brief thought to wonder what any remaining staff or visitors will make of Clint’s appearance. Hopefully no one will notice. Clint will have to work that out at some point, but now really isn’t the time.

Steve makes his way around the edges of the zoo, checking on the walls and helping the occasional stranded civilian get out. He’s nearly completed a circuit when a low growl draws his eyes to the narrow space between a couple of exhibits. 

Steve can just make out a couple of dark shapes, and eyes glowing yellow with reflected light.

An animal—he thinks it’s a hyena, but he’s never seen one in person, so he can’t really be sure—struts out, followed by another of its kind, and then several more. They prowl in a slow circle around Steve, watching his every move, and Steve has fought gods and monsters and the worst that humanity has to offer, so there’s nothing in these animals that should hold the slightest fear for him, but somehow their steady regard unnerves him anyway.

The leader lunges, and the others follow, each of them far stronger than he would have imagined they’d be. It’s hard to fight so many—for each one he bats aside, another comes at him. One actually manages to sink its teeth into his shoulder before he can tear it away, and the bite stings like hell.

He sends it flying across the room, wincing a little in guilt over harming the animal—it isn't its fault that it's been drugged by some nut of a scientist. He's about to do the same to the next one anyway when a thin shaft appears on its flank and it slumps over, unconscious. The same happens to the rest of them, and after the last one falls, Clint jumps down from the rooftop and starts retrieving the darts.

"Thanks," Steve mutters.

"Any time," Clint returns, his voice more cheerful than the situation necessarily warrants. But Steve can't really complain. "I think we've got most of the bigger game tranqed. Now we just have to worry about the rodents and whatever whackjob did all this."

"Right," Steve agrees. "Not to mention the ‘whackjob’ that's responsible for the whole damn mess."

"Yeah." Clint’s voice loses his humor at the mention of Baker. He taps his com. "Stark, you got anything on her yet?"

"Still working on the program to get into her files. She's got some ridiculous precautions, and it's a pain in my fucking ass." Steve hears a muffled bang, like distant gunshot, over the com. "Sorry, gotta go. I'll let you'll know if I get anywhere."

Steve exchanges a look with Clint. "Let's finish this up and get back to the others," Steve tells him.

Clint nods, and they go back to work.

~

Thor surveys the long span of metal and concrete. Automobiles stand motionless on what seems to be every inch of the structure's surface, and on a lower deck as well. Each one is occupied. The figures are small from this distance, but Thor thinks he can make out fear on their faces anyway.

At one end of the bridge, a small figure brandishes a weapon almost as big as he is. It's a firearm of some kind, but not, Thor suspects, one in general use in Midgard. The man's partner stands on the other end of the bridge, a similar weapon in her hand. Most of the civilians seem to have decided to remain in their vehicles, but a few of them creep between the rows of stilled metal, as if plotting some stratagem. Thor appreciates their valor, but does not like their chances of success.

Coulson stands beside him, his intelligent eyes carefully assessing the situation, but he does not speak.

"I shall call down fire from the heavens to dispatch them, and we can then return to assist the others," he suggests.

"Wait." Banner's voice comes over the coms, more tense even than is his usual manner. "The Triborough’s design assumes that lightning will hit at the highest points. If you cause a strike on the surface you could fry everybody on the bridge."

Thor exhales, frustrated, but forces himself to heed his teammate's counsel. "We shall take them by force, in that case. It should be a simple matter."

Coulson points to one end of the bridge. "Drop me off there. I'll take the guy on that end. Get into position on the other side and signal me—we should both move at once."

Thor examines his face, and finds nothing there but determination. Considering the events of the last battle he fought, Thor would not begrudge the man a sign of fear or hesitation, but he doesn't find it.

"As you say," Thor agrees. He grasps Coulson with one arm, allowing Mjölnir to pull them both aloft, skimming just over the riverbank so as to attract as little attention as possible. He deposits Coulson by the bridge's support column on one side, and takes off for the other himself.

When he reaches it, he surveys the scene. The woman holding the strange weapon is small, and he doesn’t think the battle will amount to much. They had best get on with it, and free themselves for whatever new threats may lurk on the horizon. 

He makes out Coulson on the lip the bridge, weapon in hand, ready to move. 

Nothing will be gained from waiting further. He gives the signal.

~

The shot rings out from somewhere several floors below them, but Bruce tenses anyway. He moves for the stairwell, but Tony stops him with a terse “wait.”

Bruce turns back, raising his eyebrows in inquiry. Tony doesn’t answer, but after a moment voices come through the com. 

“Don’t. Please don’t, if you damage that—“ Another gunshot, a shriek, and then silence, broken only by footsteps and the occasional frightened whimper.

Bruce swallows. It sounds like the last place he should be, but they don’t seem to have much choice. “We should get down there.”

For an instant, Tony stands stock-still and doesn’t reply. When he does answer, it’s out loud, in the odd metallic voice filtered through the suit. “Sorry. I almost got in. To Baker’s files, I mean. The lab security was easy. Baker’s security protocols are fucking byzantine. I’d be impressed if I weren’t too busy hating her guts.”

“You can finish after,” Bruce suggests.

“I can finish during,” Tony corrects.

Bruce wants to tell him to be careful, not to run himself too fast or too hard, but he’s pretty sure Tony won’t listen. Not with everything going to hell all around them.

So Bruce lets Tony lead the way down. The audio from the bio lab occasionally offers a brief altercation—generally the lab staff begging the intruders to be careful, followed by threats or blows and then more silence. Either the staff have no self preservation instincts at all, or the situation’s bad enough that they consider a few blows to the head to be small price to pay, and if Bruce were a betting man, every dollar he’s got would be on the latter.

They encounter no resistance, and they’ve just emerged onto the right floor when Tony stops again. “Motherfucking cocksucking sonofabitch,” he mutters, the words reaching Bruce’s ears only through the com.

“What is it?” Natasha’s voice rings out clear and tense.

“She’s aerosolized it.”

Bruce feels a cold fist clench around his heart. 

“Aerosolized what?” Clint asks, but by the dread in his voice, he already knows.

“The serum. Short range, but it could— fuck—“

“How short range?” 

“Decent sized auditorium, maybe a small building.”

“What’s she going to do with it?” Clint asks.

“Still working on that part.” Tony turns to Bruce “Let’s get this done and get out of here. We go in, I threaten, you take their toys away, cool?”

Bruce blanches. They’re too close to the lab, so he doesn’t dare speak, but he fixes Tony, or Tony’s facemask anyway, with a dark stare that Tony seems to interpret correctly.

“Yeah, OK,” he continues over the com, “maybe not the tactical achievement of the century, but do you have any better suggestions?”

Bruce allows his glare to concede that he doesn’t, and finally takes a breath and nods.

~ 

Phil takes down the man on the bridge with a quick shot to the knee, and vaults over the lane barrier to grab his weapon away before anything can happen to it. The gun is covered in buttons and knobs, and Phil hasn't the faintest idea what it does, but he's pretty sure he'd just as well not find out. Not here anyway. 

He bends to secure the man's wrists, and half carries him to the walkway on the side of the bridge. "So what was the plan?" 

"Make everyone..." he gasps out, pain obvious on his face, "take notice. Show them that we're— show them what we can do."

Phil huffs out a sigh. "Seriously? This is the caliber of threat we're facing, couple of assholes with a fancy gun,” he mutters to himself before addressing the guy again. “Where'd you come up with this thing anyway?"

"Designed it." His face shines with a pathetic kind of pride. "Me and my sister."

"Yeah? And did you and your sister fabricate it too?"

The idiot just glares, and for a moment Phil's afraid he's going to do the smart thing and shut the hell up. But instead he starts babbling again. "Some lady— she helped us— But it was _our_ design. We—"

Phil doesn't hear the rest, because a bang and a crash from the other end of the bridge demand his attention, and he takes one last glance at the guy before pelting for the other side, gun still in hand. "Thor," he gasps into the com, "report."

There's no answer.

He's almost halfway across when he realizes that the blast must have done serious structural damage to the bridge. He surveys the cars, the traffic still at a standstill. The people at the other end must have frozen, too frightened to move their damned cars down the highway. He considers going back to try to deal with the evacuation, but it's more important that he get to the other side and find out what's happened. He pulls a passenger out of one car. "Get to the front, get everyone moving. Everybody needs to be off this bridge right now."

She stares at him, eyes wide. "I— I'm not— I'm an accountant."

He fixes her with a firm stare. "Well, today you’re gonna be a hero. Get to the other side, get those cars moving. The other lane too—they can drive in reverse. Make it happen."

She swallows hard and then nods, gives a fluttery, determined smile to whoever was driving her car, and turns to run.

Phil takes one last look at her and starts to run again in the other direction.

~ 

Clint scans the south side of the zoo. He's found a decent vantage point, and by the looks of it the whole area is clear. There’s been no sign of the guy responsible, and Clint’s pretty sure he’s long gone. They’ll have to look at the security footage and track him down later, but now isn’t the time.

He's about to call it and suggest that he and Cap get back to the Tower to wait for the next shoe to drop when something moves inside one of the artificial caves in the tiger exhibit. He nocks another tranquilizer arrow and waits, but before he can figure out just what's inside the cave, Cap rushes in. 

Steve shifts the stray rocks that have fallen just outside the entrance. Clint assumes the damage is a result of the zoo’s elephants, whose drugged up rampage did a number on half the structures in the park. With the rubble cleared away, Clint can see the man inside. He’s middle aged, and there's pain etched in his face and blood all down one shoulder. Steve leans over him, carefully applying pressure to the wound, checking his vitals, murmuring what Clint assumes are words of comfort.

Steve gives his whole attention to the wounded man, earnest and gentle as ever, which is probably why he doesn't notice the rock above his head trembling in the wind, like it's about to give way.

Clint swings off the roof, landing hard and rolling. His tough skin protects him from even a scrape, and for that instant he blesses the advantage the serum's given him. He makes it to the cave just as the heavy slab starts to wobble in earnest, and reaches up, trying to hold it steady.

But it's a fool's errand—the structure must weigh a ton, and as it starts to fall in on top of all of them, he realizes that the way he is now he's got no chance of stopping it.

Steve looks up at him, the sudden fear on his face replaced almost immediately by relief, even though Clint hasn't helped, hasn't done anything but get himself into the same mess that Steve and the injured man were already in. He wants— he _needs_ to be worthy of that faith. He wills himself to grow strong, but nothing changes.

He looks into Steve's face again. His eyes holds a promise. He's never going to let the team down—never going to let Clint down—any more than Natasha or Coulson ever would. Clint swallows hard and wills the stony protection of his new skin away, imagines himself open and vulnerable, trusting that right now, here, he can afford it.

There's a crack above his head as the stone structure gives way, but suddenly his arms are all he needs to hold it up and off of them, and keep them all safe.

~

As it turns out, the assholes who invaded the lab are morons, but they're at least morons with some sense of self preservation. When Tony bursts through the doors and fixes them in the sites of his suit, they get their hands in the air without even being told. Then again, they are in fact morons, so the process they manage to drop a couple of samples, and the lab techs held hostage freeze in horror.

Bruce darts in and gathers the plastic containers.

"You can't—" one of the researchers objects, and Tony can read the fear in the tense tight patterns of his nerves. "If there's so much as a crack—"

Bruce produces a grim smile. "I'm the one you want checking for that, trust me." He inspects them, and seems to find nothing amiss. 

As the researchers restrain the intruders and Bruce continues to check over the samples, Tony turns most of his attention to the labyrinthine mess that is the remains of Baker’s file system. It fights him harder the deeper he goes, and doing this from inside the suit takes almost more concentration than he’s got. But he can’t stop, can’t slow. Whatever the hell Baker is doing, she’s doing it now.

When he finds it, his skin goes cold as ice. It’s just a set of calculations and a simple floorplan, but the room is familiar enough, famous enough, that Tony doesn’t need anything more.

“Found it, did you?” Baker’s voice invades the com. 

Tony swears softly to himself. He must have missed a tripwire in the system.

“It’s your own fault, you know,” she continues. “If you’d just given us a show, I wouldn’t have had to seek satisfaction elsewhere. But you were all so stubborn, so private. I’ll be sure not to give the next subjects the same chance.”

He can hear Natasha draw in a breath. “What’s she talking about?” 

“The UN. She’s headed for the General Assembly Hall.”

“Where is she now?”

“On it.” Tony doesn’t look back at Bruce—just turns and makes for the nearest set of windows. As he blasts through them, he turns his attention to tracking Baker’s signal. But his mind is racing too fast, his heart frantic in his chest, and even as he takes off, he knows it’s too much.

But he can do it. He can. 

He does. 

He just manages to gasp out a command to JARVIS to relay the coordinates before everything goes black.

~

The woman on the bridge is no match for Thor, but she holds on to her strange weapon valiantly, and he is forced to strike her a mighty blow to remove it from her hands. As he does so, the weapon falls to the ground and skids across the concrete.

The device emits a high pitched whine, and the woman’s eyes fix on it, wide with fear. Thor lunges to grab it, but he’s too late. It explodes into light and heat and a wave of force that throws him backwards, off the bridge towards the waters below.

Mjölnir breaks his fall and bears him up. Amid the smoke from the blast, Thor can make out a huge gap in the pavement and the beams supporting it. The surface of the bridge lists to one side, threatening to tumble over into the river and take the rows of automobiles with it.

His eyes flicker over the structure, gauging which portions of the damage are mere inconveniences, and which threaten the integrity of the whole. It takes him only an instant to find what he’s looking for—the place where he can act as keystone and keep the great span aloft. He takes a breath and dives for it, bracing the steel girder on his own shoulders and bearing it up. 

Above him, he can hear screams and cries and the groaning of overtaxed metal, and can only hope that his strength will be enough.

~

Bruce barely manages to shove the samples safely into the hands of the nearest lab tech before he takes off after Tony. His trail isn’t hard to follow, but it ends in empty air where he’s smashed through the windows. Bruce just stands there for a moment, watching Tony arc up and away.

But then the suit falters. It’s like déjà vu, Tony’s suit hanging in midair and then falling so fast that Bruce can’t resist the change, can’t hold himself back and wouldn’t if he could.

The other guy rips through him as he jumps, and he gives himself over to rage and power.

The metal man is falling, falling from the sky again. Stupid metal man, thinks he’s so strong, thinks he’s so smart. Stupid delicate metal man, so careless with himself. Careless with puny Banner too, who needs him, wants him, hurts for him every time the metal man hurts, and Hulk will have to teach him better.

Hulk grabs a wall and swings, throwing himself at the metal man and catching him in one strong hand. When he hits the ground he puts the metal man down and pokes him with one finger—careful, because metal man is puny-weak. 

But metal man doesn’t move. Stupid, careless metal man doesn’t move and doesn’t move, and Hulk can do nothing but scream in fury. 

~

Steve shifts the veterinarian clear of the cave fast—too fast, maybe, but he's careful, and there's nothing else he can do. He glances back at Clint, whose tanned face shows the strain of bracing the crumbling pile of rock.

Now that he's out of it, Steve can better appreciate just what they'd escaped—he's not sure he could have held it up even if he hadn't been busy trying to keep the civilian's blood in his body.

"We're good," he calls, "get out of there."

Clint gives a tight nod and lunges clear, rolling to avoid the debris. Even so he catches a gash to his shoulder from a stray rock, and a nasty collection of abrasions from the ground.

Steve moves to examine Clint's wounds, which bleed profusely, but Clint brushes away Steve's concern as Natasha's voice comes over the com.

"Just got word from Stark—Baker's in the Lincoln Tunnel, on a moped and moving fast. She's probably ten minutes out from the UN.”

“Is Stark on it?”

“Negative. Stark’s down. Cap, how fast can you get there?”

A sick feeling settles in Steve’s stomach. “The jet’s with Coulson and Thor. It’s gonna be twenty before we can get to midtown.”

~

When Phil gets to the far side of the bridge, he casts around, desperate to find Thor, or some way to get himself to the quinjet on the other bank. But the end of the bridge is torn to shreds—it’s a miracle that the structure is still standing.

“Thor, report!” he demands, hoping for a response this time.

He gets it, but Thor’s voice is tight with effort. “I am... below the bridge. But I fear I cannot... leave it.”

Phil glances at the pavement at his feet, and realizes that it remains in place only because Thor’s holding it up. He allows himself a brief string of curses before he opens a line to S.H.I.E.L.D. and demands an engineering team on the double. Their timing estimate’s better than he expected, but still not good enough. He taps his com. “Thor’s otherwise occupied. Banner?”

But Romanoff, not Banner, answers. “Banner’s left the building. The Hulk came out to keep Stark from crashing into the pavement, and it doesn’t look like we’re getting Banner back any time soon.”

“Can we not... send the Hulk... after Baker?” Thor suggests, the strain audible in his voice.

Romanoff snorts. “I’ve got a visual—pretty sure anybody who suggests he leave Stark unguarded is getting smashed into the sidewalk. Coulson, can you get over here?”

Phil curses. “Not in time.”

“There’s got to be somebody in the city that can get there. Can we get the cops to grab her?” Barton suggests.

“Pepper says NYPD’s got their hands full with crowd control,” Romanoff reports. “They’re not going to take orders from us at the moment. We’ve alerted UN security, but they may not be enough.”

“It would seem... that they shall... have to be,” Thor manages, his voice grim. “We are... out of options.”

“No,” Romanoff’s voice comes over the com, tense but determined. “We’re not.”

~

Natasha knows it’s a mistake even before she says it, but she can’t keep the words from tumbling out. Can’t tamp down the need she feels in every cell of her body to move, to fight. Her nerves stretch taut, and she knows that there’s no way she can sit this one out.

That doesn’t mean it isn’t a mistake. It just means it’s a mistake she has to make.

“Nat? You sure?” There’s a strain in Clint’s voice, and a hope too. He needs her to do this—they all do. But he’s giving her an out anyway. “You know what happened to Stark....”

“I am in no way sure,” she tells him, already on her feet and halfway to the elevator. “Doing it anyway. Any objections?” 

“Not from me,” Clint assures her.

“Go get her,” Coulson adds.

There’s silence for an instant, and then Rogers speaks as well. “We’ll back you up as soon as we can. Good luck.”

She makes it down the eighty-odd floors in record time—she has a feeling that JAVIS can speed the elevator when he chooses, and she’s glad he chose to now. She needs every minute she can get. Baker’s already on 42nd, and her route’s going to take her right past Stark Tower any second now.

Fear tenses Natasha’s muscles, draws her skin tight and makes the backs of her eyeballs itch. She shouldn’t be here, out in the open, looking for exactly the trouble she’s been hiding from for weeks. But she’s never let fear make her weak before, and she isn’t about to start now.

She surveys the street even before the lobby door closes behind her. Cars jam every inch of the road, and the pedestrians bustle up and down the sidewalks on both sides. None of them know what’s coming.

A bike weaves its way through traffic, and Natasha starts, but it’s nothing, just a messenger, going about her business. The second and third bikes are civilians too, but then she catches a strawberry blonde with a too-big backpack and knows its Baker before Natasha can even see her face.

Natasha runs toward the street, waving her hand like she’s calling for a cab, but Baker seems to see her anyway, and darts closer to the center of traffic. Natasha gives up any pretense and runs full out, leaping over the hoods of two cars in quick succession to jam a foot against the back wheel of Baker’s bike just before she rides past.

Baker stumbles off, but gains her feet quickly and begins to dart away before Natasha manages to grab her bag and yank her back. Baker tries a punch, but Natasha grabs her wrist and twists it.

The cars around them move again—some have paused to watch the fight, but the honking of horns persuades them to mind their own business.

Natasha takes a quick breath and shifts to get Baker in a more stable position to drag her back to the Tower. They’ve barely made it to the sidewalk when a slow beeping noise begins.

A lot of things beep, and Natasha’s got no reason to think this one is any particular problem. But the smile on Baker’s face makes her blood run cold. She tightens her arm around Baker’s throat. “What is it?”

“I think you’ve already figured that out. You’ve got thirty seconds to let me go or we get to see the real you.”

Natasha shivers. A part of her screams to let go and run, but she clenches her jaw and keeps her grip. “You wouldn’t. You’ve got a plan and this isn’t it.”

“I’ve got a lot of plans, and I’ve got no problem accelerating this one.”

“You’re as close to it as I am. You’ll get it too. I’m guessing radiation sickness isn’t on the agenda.”

Baker chuckles. “That’s not going to be a problem.”

Natasha swallows hard. “You dosed yourself.”

“We get to see the real me too. Again, a little sooner than I meant to, but I can work with that.”

Options flicker through Natasha’s mind, none of them good. She can probably find the bomb, but her odds of diffusing it aren't the kind she'd care to play. She can grab the whole bag, try to find something to shield the thing before it blows. She can toss it far from both of them and hope that even without a serum saturated body to soak up the radiation, the charge will be small enough not to do much harm.

Or she can run. Run and hope that after Baker transforms, Natasha can get back and take her down, stop her from getting away again, from getting to the UN or taking out half of midtown.

Running is the smart move. She's got no business playing the hero, taking the gamma pulse that for all she knows will turn her into a worse threat than Baker.

She tries to force herself to let go, to move. She glances at the gathered crowd—they obviously have no idea what this is. They probably think they're watching some petty fight over money, a job, a lover. She pulls out her most commanding voice and orders them to get away, but this is New York—she doesn't really expect fear to trump curiosity, and it doesn't. Some people move along, but too many of them stay and watch. If she runs, she's leaving them there with whatever Baker becomes.

She tells herself there's nothing she can do about that, that the best way to protect them is to get as far away as possible. She tells herself that, but against all reason she doesn't believe it.

So she doesn't let go, doesn't run.

"Tick tick," Baker chides. The beeping noise turns frantic, and Baker smiles. "Time's up."

There's light, and then heat, and then pain. 

Pain she’s used to, and it doesn’t keep her from thinking, planning. But she’s only got one choice left. It lurks inside her back tooth where her tongue finds it easily, and pauses.

It’s a way out. The only way out now, maybe the last one she’ll ever get. But even as the agony invades her, blinding her to her surroundings and obscuring every sensation but itself, a way out isn’t want she wants.

What she wants is a way to win.

So she leaves the capsule in its place, and doesn't let her grip on Baker weaken. She hangs on for dear life, hers and everyone else’s, even when she feels Baker’s form twist under her hands, shifting, growing, skin turning hot and sharp, odd protrusions tearing through Baker’s clothes.

Natasha's own skin draws tight, bone and muscle and sinew aching, blood raging through her, burning its path through her veins.

Her grip on Baker falters as Baker’s neck grows too thick to be held, and just as the pain starts to recede, Baker turns with a vicious snarl and shoves Natasha away.

Natasha feels the hard brick of the nearest building as she's flung into it, back first. She slumps to the ground, stunned for an instant by the impact. But after a moment, she gets her feet under her, and when she straightens, she feels no pain.

Baker still stands on the sidewalk, the vicious, unhinged grin on her face unchanged. That’s all that remains the same, though—her clothes hang in tatters, leaving only too-pale skin to cover most of her twisted and misshapen body.

The spectators finally realize their error, and flee in all directions. Baker grabs a car with one hand, and its occupant just manages to tumble out the door before Baker sends it flying in Natasha’s direction.

Natasha ducks and rolls out of the way, mind racing. She barely has time to glance at her own form, and can find nothing changed about it before Baker makes a grab for her. She dodges away, drawing both her guns and firing off a couple of rounds. Baker snarls, more in annoyance than in pain, and lunges.

Natasha grabs Baker’s arm as she closes in, pivoting to throw herself clear of the blow. But the move sends Baker flying instead, as if she weighed half of what she must. Natasha blinks, trying to process what’s happening, whether she’s stronger or Baker is lighter or some third option she hasn’t thought of. 

She doesn’t have much time to consider it, because Baker recovers herself and lunges again, snarling and reaching for Natasha with viciously clawed hands.

Natasha deflects the blow with her right hand, and only afterwards remembers the sprain that should have made the move an agonizing mistake. But her wrist feels fine—feels as strong as ever, and probably stronger, because she absorbs the impact of Baker’s grab easily, and sends her twisted form tumbling away.

She doesn’t wait for Baker to recover, firing the widow’s bite without hesitation, but the jolt barely seems to bother her. 

Natasha curses and looks around, desperate for anything that will do some real damage. She’s come up with nothing when Baker takes another swing, catching Natasha hard on the shoulder this time. The blow knocks her to the ground, but as she goes down, Natasha catches Baker’s neck between her legs and rolls, forcing her to the pavement.

Baker struggles, nearly throwing Natasha clear, but Natasha manages to hang on and keep her down. Barely. She hasn’t got an end-game, and while she’s stronger—much stronger, she realizes, than she had ever imagined being—she hasn’t come up with anything to bind Baker or injure her enough to keep her down. 

She tries anyway, landing a couple of solid punches. Baker brings up one grotesque hand and slashes at Natasha’s arm. Blood wells up, but Natasha ignores it, letting it drip down her wrist and onto Baker as they continue to grapple.

Baker screams, her voice rough and shrill with pain. At first Natasha assumes that her fists found a weak spot, but an instant later she sees the wound, an ugly mottled patch of red and white where her blood fell on Baker’s skin. 

Nausea rips through Natasha’s gut, but she doesn’t let it keep her from pressing her advantage. She shoves her forearm against Baker’s shoulder, and Baker screams again, and keeps on screaming as her skin bubbles and burns. After a moment her body tenses and then goes limp. Her eyes fall shut and the spines seem to melt away as she shrinks back to her original size, unconscious and with the grotesque chemical burns still scattered across her skin.

Natasha pulls in a shaky breath, willing herself not to retch or sob. She puts her hand down to steady herself, but when her blood meets the ground she can feel it eating away at the pavement, leaving the sidewalk pockmarked when she snatches her hand away.

She hears an engine shut off behind her and looks up to see Clint jump off an unfamiliar motorcycle. He grins, relief shining bright on his face. “You got her.” 

He takes a couple of steps towards her and reaches down, but she flinches away.

“Don’t touch me.”

He stops dead, blinks, and she realizes that he has no idea what happened.

She swallows, but finds her throat almost too dry to manage it. “I got her, she got me,” she explains in a low voice. “Now we’ve got to get both of us contained.”


	17. We Are What We Pretend to Be (be careful)

Clint can do nothing but watch and give a bare-bones report to the others as Natasha carries Baker up to the Hulk room and locks all three of them in. She tries to shoo Clint out first, but he stands firm and goes nowhere, and in the end she just gives a little nod and returns to securing Baker.

"The ropes won't hold if she transforms again," she murmurs, "but maybe it'll slow her down."

 _If she transforms again._ Clint swallows. “You mean she— and you—“

Natasha nods, but her face remains blank and hard, the expression she pulls out when she doesn't want to talk, even to him, and he respects it enough not to force a conversation. Instead he leans against the wall and watches as she paces the length of the room, her footsteps falling with a quick, even rhythm.

She looks... good. He hates to even think it, because her distress is obvious in every line of her body, but if there's a change in her—and he's pretty sure there is—it's all what most people would call for the better. She stands a little taller, her muscles a little more defined. It's subtle, but he's almost sure he's reading it right. Obviously she's stronger—she handled Baker like a rag doll, and while he knows she could have carried her before, it would always have been with at least a little effort. There's no telling how strong she is, whether she's faster too, or any of that. He'd bet on it, though.

Her outfit's a little the worse for wear, and one sleeve has mostly disintegrated. Her eyes avoid the damage carefully, pointedly, and Clint knows that sooner or later he's going to have to ask why. But he can't bring himself to do it yet. For now she deserves what little space she'll allow herself to have.

She crosses the room eleven times—he counts—before finally coming to a dead stop and facing him. He lets a tentative smile touch his lips, but waits for her to open the conversation.

When she does, her voice is careful, steady. “I cut her off, got her off her bike, but she had some kind of gamma device. It was either let her go, or let her—“ she swallows and looks up at the ceiling for a moment before continuing. “Or let her irradiate me.” Her lips form a grim smile. “I didn’t let go.”

“Good.”

Her smile brightens just a little at that, but drops away almost immediately. “She became a lot like Blonsky. Strong, spiny, weird looking. And I…” She takes a breath, shrugs.

He grins. “Looks like you got the full on Captain America. I’m pretty sure I’m jealous.” She doesn’t answer, and he knows there’s more to it than that, but he keeps talking anyway, giving her a kind of space. “You want to arm wrestle? ‘Cause, at the moment I think I could still give you a run for your money. Just don’t ask me when I’m up on the helicarrier with the assholes from the tactical team…”

She frowns and regards him appraisingly, and then gives a soft little snort that says she understands. He doesn’t have to explain what he’s figured out about his condition to her—she probably knew it before he did.

“You should do something about that arm.”

He looks down, and is almost surprised to find he’s still bleeding where he was cut all the way back at the zoo. The wound’s deeper than the scratch it should be, and a sick feeling settles in his gut at the reminder that he doesn’t quite know his body the way he used to. He takes a breath. He’ll figure it out.

For now, he doesn’t have all that much to worry about—the cut’s more than a scratch, but it’s no real problem. More to placate Natasha than because he’s actually worried about it, he finds a bandage and wraps it around the arm.

He finishes quickly, but once he has he can’t think of anything to say. The silence stretches between them, tension building again in Natasha’s frame. There remains something she isn’t telling him—something beyond the fear that there’s more to her transition than she knows yet.

“You’re right,” she tells him finally, “it made me stronger. Maybe faster, I don’t know.” She shrugs. “But when I fought Baker, she was still bigger, stronger. I shot her, I electrocuted her, but nothing made a dent. Until she cut me, and my blood—“ She holds up a hand, and he can see dark red smudges over her hand and forearm, and what looks like a fading scar under her mangled sleeve. "I think—" She looks over at Baker, who remains unconscious, but whose chest rises and falls with her breathing. "I think my blood is... acid. When it fell on her, well, it looked like it hurt." Natasha's voice carries satisfaction, but Clint's pretty sure that's a thin facade over a deep well of unease.

He takes a couple of steps to peer at Baker, the tattered remains of her clothing failing to conceal nasty chemical burns. He swallows and looks up at Natasha again. "OK. Well, apparently that comes in handy."

She arches one challenging eyebrow, but he meets her gaze, keeping his face even, and after a moment she concedes the point with a nod.

"I get it. It's still unsettling."

She huffs out a short laugh. "'Unsettling.' Yeah, that's one word for the fact that my blood eats through concrete."

"Nat—" he eyes her carefully, unsure if what he's about to say will help or hurt. He tries anyway. "You made it. You're you. You're... perfect." He gestures at her arm. "And you're healing already. You must have noticed."

She swallows, and nods.

"I wasn't kidding. You pretty much got what Steve did."

She looks away. "Yeah, that plus insides made of industrial strength solvent."

Clint shrugs. "Sure. Why not? The point is, you're OK."

"We don't know that yet." But he’s pretty sure that she’s cautioning herself more than him.

He looks her up and down. "Yeah, OK. But for now, maybe we focus on getting the room secured for when Baker comes to, and get the two of us out of here? I don't know about you, but I don't feel like fighting the second coming of the Abomination if we can just keep her locked away until the cavalry shows."

She smiles. "Didn't you notice? We are the cavalry now."

~

Steve hears the Hulk long before he rounds the corner and gets a look at him. The block is deserted, and with good reason. The Hulk has uprooted several nearby trees, and sent most of the cars in the area flying. Steve swallows hard and his eyes search the wreckage for casualties, but either the Hulk's been careful or they got lucky—none of the cars seem to have been occupied.

At the Hulk's feet, Steve can see Stark's suit, still motionless. The Hulk leans over and pokes at him again, and Steve winces, hoping that he hasn't done any damage. When the Hulk looks up to see Steve approaching, he meets Steve's eyes, grins broadly to show every one of his huge teeth, and lets out a terrible roar.

Steve feels a cold knot of fear in his chest, but forces himself to take a few more steps anyway. He's come here for a reason, and at a cost. He'd have liked to commandeer a ride like Clint had, to rush to back up Romanoff. Clint’s reported in already, giving the terse update that Romanoff got Baker into custody, but by his voice that isn’t all that's happened, and his short, sharp answers make Steve itch to be there himself.

Still, Clint probably had a point when he argued that Steve was the team's best remaining bet to get the Hulk under control, and given the tantrum the other guy’s throwing in the middle of Washington Heights, they can’t afford to ignore the situation.

So Steve's here, even though he should maybe be elsewhere, and he's damned well not going to waste his time with fear, even if it is pretty well justified.

"Bruce," he calls out, but the Hulk's rage seems to burn brighter at the sound of that name. "Hulk," Steve tries. "It's me. You know me. We fought together."

The Hulk's brows knit together, and the expression isn't welcoming, but Steve figures that it's still better than the bellowing anger.

"Remember? You smashed the Chitauri. And Loki." Considering how the fight with the Abomination ended, Steve figures it's just as well not to bring up that one.

The Hulk grins. "Puny God."

Steve laughs. "Right." He takes another couple of steps, until he's only a few yards from Stark. "Stark—" he begins, and then corrects himself, "Iron Man is hurt. I want to help him. Can I try to help him?"

The Hulk's eyes narrow in suspicion. "You help metal man?"

"That's right."

There's no answer, but Steve takes Hulk’s silence as permission and closes the distance to examine Stark's suit. He can't immediately figure out how to get it open, but the arc reactor pulses with energy. "Uh... JARVIS?" he tries. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes, Sir." JARVIS's mannered tone emanates from the suit, and it's odd, but Steve is heartily relieved.

"Is Stark OK?"

"Vital signs are within expected parameters."

Steve lets out a sigh of relief and looks up to see the Hulk... well, hulking over him. "It's OK. Metal man is OK."

The Hulk glares at him. "Metal man doesn't move."

"No," Steve agrees, and a thought occurs. "You know, it would be good if he could get a doctor to look at him. If you'd let Dr. Banner—"

"NO." The Hulk moves away to find a tree that he hasn't yet yanked out of the ground. He grabs a young oak in one huge fist and pulls, dirt flying everywhere from the exposed roots as he brandishes it in Steve’s direction.

Steve takes a step back and puts his hands up in surrender. "OK. Look, we can just stay here and wait. Hopefully he'll come around on his own."

The Hulk looks at Stark again, and lowers the tree to the ground. After a moment he looks back at Steve. "Banner help?"

"I think so," Steve tells him, hesitant to oversell the point.

The Hulk's glare doesn't soften, but after a moment he begins to shrink down, his skin going pale. Steve takes a couple of steps forward to support Bruce, unsure whether he'll be able to stand once he's regained control of his body. Bruce slumps against him, the tattered remains of his pants barely staying at his waist, and it suddenly occurs to Steve to wonder how he's going to get the two of them back to the Tower in their present condition.

Bruce shifts to his feet, and one hand moves to gather his pants in what looks like an automatic gesture. Steve doesn't envy him the necessity that inculcated that particular habit. Bruce looks around vaguely for a moment, and then straightens suddenly as memory returns. "Tony," he murmurs, his voice tight with fear.

Steve points. "JARVIS says he's OK. But he hasn't come to yet."

Bruce nods as he moves to kneel by Stark's suit and opens up the faceplate. He slips a finger in to press against Tony's neck, apparently not content to rely on JARVIS's assessment, and for a moment goes limp with relief. Then he seems to remember himself, and looks back up at Steve. "Did the other guy—?"

Steve shakes his head. “Looks like no serious harm done. And I'm pretty sure he saved Stark. Again."

"Thank you." Steve isn't sure if the gratitude is at his answer or at the Hulk's good behavior, but it's sad and earnest and makes Steve's chest tighten a little in sympathy.

"We should get back to the Tower. Baker's in custody, but I'm not sure what's going on. I think Romanoff and Barton could use the backup."

A shadow of guilt crosses Banner's face. "What happened?"

"I don't know much yet. But it sounds like everyone's OK for the moment. Let's, uh..." he glances around at the deserted street, strewn with wrecked cars and the broken trunks of trees. "We're probably not going to be able to hail a cab right around here, huh?"

~

They've only just checked the Hulk room for any weak spots, and received JARVIS’s assurances that none of the computer access systems will work for Baker no matter what she does, when Thor and Coulson arrive. Thor looks a little the worse for wear, and Coulson greets them with weary eyes, but apparently the Triborough has been left in the good hands of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s engineering team, and no new threats have been identified in the rest of the city.

"Stark and Banner?" Clint asks.

"Rogers is with them, and they’re on their way. Pepper sent a car to get them—should be arriving any minute." Coulson paces over to examine Baker. His lips press together in a grim line when he takes in the woman's wounds, but when he looks up he gives a simple nod. "Good job taking her in. Do you want to give a report now, or get some rest and debrief later?"

Natasha examines his eyes, and finds them soft with understanding. He knows—he must know—what happened. He'll surely have found video by now, and she knows that Clint called in a report as well. But he acts as though she's free to go back to her room, take a nap, behave like something other than the threat she is. "You know I should be under guard."

He sighs. "You really think that's necessary?"

"Don't go soft, Coulson."

She can see his adam's apple bob at that, and the slight twitch at the corner of one eye that betrays real anger. "I assure you, Agent Romanoff, that I am doing nothing of the kind." He closes the distance between them and reaches out to put a hand on one shoulder, but she flinches away.

"I'm not safe. You've seen what my blood can do."

"I've seen what Banner's blood can do too."

She pauses, and considers that. He isn't wrong, but he isn't getting to the whole of the situation either. "Banner's got himself under control."

Coulson cracks a wry smile at that, and Clint actually guffaws. Thor does neither, but watches the three of them with careful attention.

She crosses her arms over her chest and tries to stare them down. "I think I missed the punchline."

Clint recovers himself, and watches her fondly. "Nat, I've never met anybody in better control of herself than you. Banner included."

Just then the door opens, and Rogers enters, Banner behind him. 

"What exactly am I included in?" Banner asks with a wariness that Natasha thinks is at least partly a joke.

"The category of people with less self control than Natasha," Clint explains. "You and the rest of the planet."

Banner looks away, the humor mostly gone. "Yeah, pretty sure I just demonstrated where I fall on that list."

Rogers puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. “You did what you had to. No real harm done.”

Banner nods at that, but his expression suggests that he doesn’t take much comfort from Rogers’ words.

“Stark’s status?” Coulson asks.

Banner glances at Rogers before he answers. “He’ll be fine. Exhausted himself, but he’s safe. He should come around soon.” He doesn’t smile, but some of the tension ebbs away as he speaks. He turns to Natasha. "How are you?" he asks. 

The steady warmth in his voice invites a real answer, but she finds that she doesn't know what that answer is. She looks down at herself, brings one hand up to thread through her hair, takes a breath. "I don't know." She ought to be afraid. Ought to be hurting. The acid running through her veins should trouble her. She shouldn't feel—doesn't deserve to feel—a giddy thrill of strength, a soft glow of health. She shakes her head. "You'll want to take some samples, right Doc? Figure me out?"

Banner eyes her for a moment, and then offers a professional smile. "Of course. We can use the lab." He takes a step toward the door, but suddenly stops and looks back at Baker. "Has she—?" He shakes his head and crosses the room, kneeling to examine her. He blinks at her wounds and looks up at Natasha with alarm in his eyes, but he banishes it quickly and completes a quick check of Baker's vitals. Apparently satisfied that she's not in immediate need of medical attention, he nods and returns to the group. "I trust someone's keeping an eye on her?"

Clint nods. "We've made sure the room is secure. We can keep her here until S.H.I.E.L.D.'s ready to take her into custody."

"Which should be in about," Coulson consults his watch, "an hour and a half."

"That soon?" Rogers asks.

"Things have quieted down. Most of the threats went bust pretty quickly, and we’re regrouping.”

Natasha considers for a moment, and then allows Banner to lead the way to his lab. When they arrive, she hops up on a table and allows him to run through some tests, careful to keep him away from her still-bloodstained arm and hand.

He’s taken her blood pressure and listened to her heart and done any number of things that she’s pretty sure serve no function but to mark time when he finally stops and stands back. “You want to tell me about that?” he asks, pointing at the dissolved remains of her sleeve.

“I figured you’d’ve seen the video.” A thought occurs. “Or would that be an unprofessional invasion of my privacy?” she teases.

That brings a smile to his lips. “No. And no, I haven’t seen it, but I got a recap. Your blood is corrosive, by the looks of it.”

She nods, and a wave of nausea sweeps over her as she remembers the way her blood ate away at Baker’s flesh.

Banner rifles through a drawer, and eventually comes up with an odd-looking syringe. He screws some parts together. “May I take a blood sample?”

“Can you?”

He flicks a fingernail against the covered tip of the needle. “Polytetrafluoroethylene. Highly durable against most corrosive substances.” He shakes his head, and there’s a regret there that she can’t quite parse. “Tony’s labs really do have everything.”

She nods. “Go for it.”

He finds a vein with practiced ease and draws a measure of bright red blood up into the syringe. She watches as he moves to another lab bench and examines it, carefully manipulating the sample through a series of tests and scans. 

She looks away, and tries to sort out her thoughts. 

There could always be more to her condition than meets the eye. She can’t afford to assume that there’s not, can’t afford to trust herself, or let the others trust her.

But she can’t deny that she feels… good. She forces herself to remember the sickening noise her blood made as it ate through Baker’s flesh. Makes herself imagine the same grotesque damage on Coulson, on James, on Clint. Their voices crying out in pain as her blood tears them apart.

That’s what she is. She can’t ever afford to forget it.

Banner returns with a damp cloth bandage, a pair of gloves, and a plastic bin. “Let’s get that arm cleaned up,” he suggests.

She frowns. “Is that—is it safe?”

“I’ve taken appropriate precautions.”

She gives a little nod and he begins to clean her arm and hand. The cloth is warm and his touch careful, but not so careful that it sets her teeth on edge. As he works, he speaks softly, explaining his results.

“You seem to be extremely healthy. Even more so than before. Your arm is healing up fast—I haven’t personally seen Rogers get hurt, but from his file I think you may heal faster than he does.” He meets her eyes and gives an honest smile, but she can see the deep weariness in his own face as he continues. “You are—what is it the old comics said?—the peak of human physical perfection. And then some.”

“I’m pretty sure Cap’s blood doesn’t require ‘appropriate precautions.’”

“No,” Banner agrees. “But even there—it looks like your veins, your skin, all of you, probably, has adapted to withstand the acid levels in your blood. To thrive on it—the blood chemistry looks like it may allow for more efficient distribution of oxygen. The general acid resistance likely also negates the effects of lactic acid buildup, so—" He cuts himself off. "I'm sorry. The details can wait. But overall, you're well ahead of the curve, medically speaking."

She lets out a harsh little snort of laughter. ”My blood dissolves concrete. What am I supposed to do about that?”

“Same thing you did before, I think. Keep it inside.” He looks up, and seems to examine her face. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be flippant. I, well, you know I have some experience with this kind of thing.”

She does, and for a moment regrets complaining to him, of all people. Whatever she deserves, whatever she is, she was lucky here. Luckier than he was. Her lips part in an apology, but he shakes his head and continues before she can speak.

“It’s not that bad. And for you— your skin is quite literally thicker, you’re faster, more coordinated, harder to wound, and when you do get hurt, you heal fast. You aren’t going to be bleeding all that often.”

She considers that, and takes a long breath. It’s an answer she can live with. For the most part, anyway. She lets a little smirk form on her lips. ”I think you’re missing something there, Doc.”

He frowns, puzzled, but after a moment he blinks and gives a slightly embarrassed nod. “Right. Androcentric bias, sorry. Um, I’m sure we can come up with specially designed… uh… sanitary products to, um...”

“Feel free to stop talking any time, Doc.”

“Right. I’ll work on it.”

"Thanks."

“Sure,” he agrees easily, placing the cleaning things into the bucket and sealing it.

She reaches out and lays one palm on his arm. “Really, Bruce. Thank you.”

He looks at her, and she thinks she can see just a little piece of tension leave his face. “You’re welcome.”

~

Tony’s eyes snap open and he gasps in a breath. He can feel the flood of adrenaline as his body catches up to the panic already pervading his mind. Baker. Lincoln Tunnel. The U.N. Bruce, left behind with those psychos in the lab.

Himself, in the suit, hanging in mid air, and then—

Goddamnit it. He meant to fix the suit, teach it how to stabilize on its own when he’s down for the count. Should have done it ages ago, even before the serum. Any number of conditions can cause a blackout. Vasovagal reflex, abnormal heartbeat, orthostatic hypotension, blood clot, seizure, transient ischemic attack, stroke.

Not the point. Point is he should have done something about it long ago, and never did.

No. That isn’t the point either. Baker is the point. Kalina fucking Baker Blonksy whatever the hell. “JARVIS, where the fuck is Baker?”

“Dr. Baker is confined to the ‘Hulk Room,’ Sir.”

Tony blinks and looks around. He’s out of the suit, on his back in the bed of the Zen room that should be Steve’s but somehow is still his instead.

His heartbeat doesn’t slow. Baker is actually also not the point. The point is the others. “What happened? Is everybody OK?”

“Agent Romanoff was able to take Dr. Baker into custody. She and Agent Barton sustained minor puncture wounds. A variety of injuries have been reported in the various conflicts within the city, but thus far there are no indications of fatalities.”

Tony blinks, draws in a breath. That’s all better than expected. He throws the covers off and stands.

“However,” JARVIS continues, “Agent Romanoff and Dr. Baker were exposed to gamma radiation during their struggle, and both have undergone transitions as a result of the serum.”

He stops dead, his skin gone cold. He opens his mouth to ask after the results, but before he can the door slides open and Rogers enters. Tony snorts in irritation, but quickly remembers that this was after all Rogers’ assigned room, and changing the locks has hardly been a priority. Nor is it now.

“Good to see you up and—“

Tony doesn’t wait for him to finish. “How’s Romanoff?”

“You know that she—?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s good, I think.” He looks away, and Tony takes a careful breath and forces himself to wait for Rogers to continue, torturous as his slow speech might be. “Bruce is doing an exam in the lab, but she seems like herself, just… stronger. But—“ He pauses again, and Tony starts to recite primitive Pythagorean triples under his breath, trying to slow himself down enough to listen as Rogers continues. “There’s something about her blood, I guess.”

“Like Bruce?”

“I guess. I’m not sure.” 

“And Baker’s contained?”

Rogers nods, obviously on more comfortable footing there. “Apparently her transformation made her a lot like her father, but she’s unconscious at the moment, and looks like herself. An extraction team’s going to be here soon to get her into custody.”

“Good riddance. I don’t love the idea of her in my Tower.”

“There wasn’t anyplace else to contain her, and you were—“

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“How are you anyway?”

Tony blinks at the question, and remembers that he must have blacked out in open air. “Fine. I’m fine. Did the suit—?” He hadn’t programmed it with the failsafe, but JARVIS does take initiative, so maybe…

Rogers shakes his head. “Bruce.”

“Bruce-Bruce, or—?”

“The other guy. He wasn’t thrilled about your condition. I think he might want to have some words with you. And we’re probably going to have to pay for some cars.” Rogers winces. “And trees. And probably sidewalks.”

Tony swallows. That sounds like a scene he’s glad to have missed. “But Bruce is OK?”

“Yeah. I had a little talk with the other guy and he agreed to let Bruce take over to look after you.” Rogers smiles. “It was kind of sweet.”

Tony tries to huff at that, and manages to put on an irritated glare, but he can feel the corners of his mouth lift in an involuntary smile, and he’s pretty sure that ruins the effect.

“Gotta admit I was a little surprised about you two. I didn’t know—“ He looks a little uncomfortable, for a moment, but shrugs it away. “I’m happy for you.”

Tony can’t help but laugh a little. “Thanks, Cap. Appreciate the vote of confidence.” 

Steve smiles. “Anyway, Fury wants to debrief all of us now that you’re awake. You up for that?”

“Why not? Let’s go see what tune he wants us to dance to today.”

Steve’s face turns grim and he gives a little nod. Tony can’t tell if the shift in expression is because he disapproves of Tony’s disrespect, or if he shares Tony’s trepidation towards S.H.I.E.L.D.’s plans.

When they reach the living room, the others have already gathered. Natasha stands stiff-backed by one wall, Clint at her side. Bruce sprawls on a chair, exhaustion obvious in his face, but a smile comes to his lips when he lays eyes on Tony. Coulson and Thor talk quietly off to one side until Coulson looks up and notes their arrival.

“JARVIS, let Fury know that we’re ready whenever he is.”

“Yes, Sir,” JARVIS confirms, and the nearest display comes to life almost immediately, the screen centered on Fury’s face. 

Something about the view unsettles Tony, and it takes him a moment to realize that the problem is that he can’t see Fury’s neural patterns on the screen. Which isn’t a surprise, or shouldn’t be—whatever it is that lets him see electrical signals, there’s no reason it would be captured on video. But the idea that he’s so quickly gotten used to that extra bit of data is itself a little unnerving. 

He’s still hashing out that new wrinkle when Fury starts to speak, his tone rich with satisfaction. "We appreciate the team’s help in taking care of the situation in New York, and in particular in apprehending Baker. The situation here’s calmed down considerably, now that Baker’s out of play. The extraction team should be there any minute to take her into custody.” 

Tony’s eyes narrow. “You sure your guys can handle her? She got her dad got out from under military control easily enough.”

"Have a little faith, Stark. S.H.I.E.L.D. is a hell of a lot more competent than Ross is in his wildest dreams."

"You better be. Because I am seriously not interested in round three on the Blonsky clan. Have you checked to see if she's left any offspring tottering around? Does she have any half-sisters or great-uncles who are currently plotting our doom?"

Coulson answers before Fury can. "I assure you that we're already looking into every connection. We don't want a repeat performance any more than you do."

“At least let me give you a hand with the security protocols. She really needs to spend the rest of her life someplace dark, dank, and very far away from an internet connection."

Fury nods. "We're aware, and we’ll take you up on that offer. Dr. Banner, your advice would also be appreciated on that score." 

Tony glances over at Bruce and finds his body lit up like a live wire. He swallows hard and his eyes dart around searching for a reaction, but the general sense of relief and exhaustion in the room doesn't shift—apparently none of the others can see that anything is amiss.

“Were you looking for my expertise as a biophysicist,” Bruce asks, his voice cool, “or were you hoping to draw on my personal experience with that kind of facility?”

They all catch on in a hurry then, and the room falls into tense silence. Even Fury seems to hesitate for a moment before replying, though when he does it’s in an even tone. “Dr. Banner, she needs to be contained. What she's done she did deliberately, and serum or not she poses a clear danger."

Bruce acknowledges that with a brief nod, and the bright fire of his nerves dims a little, but the hard look on his face doesn't ease. “She gets a trial, she gets medical care, and nobody makes a lab rat out of her without real consent.”

Fury bristles. “Is that a threat, Doctor Banner?”

“Does it need to be?”

Tony shivers at the sound of Bruce’s voice. It’s outwardly casual, but there’s a world of menace underneath, and for the second time since he met the man, he can see where the Hulk comes from. That it’s coming out in defense of a piece of shit who’s put them all through hell—who tore ripped Tony himself open and turned him inside out—rankles. He looks away as Fury answers.

“She’ll get to make her case before a S.H.I.E.L.D. tribunal. And we don’t mistreat our prisoners. You don’t believe me, we can arrange for you to check in on her periodically. Satisfied?”

Tony glances back to see Bruce’s short nod.

Fury accepts it and continues. "I understand that Baker’s apprehension was at a cost, Agent Romanoff."

"Yes Sir," she answers, her voice steady. “I’m willing to submit to confinement and observation while my condition is fully ascertained."

Fury barks out a laugh. "Confinement? You think this means you get to lounge around some lab instead of getting your ass back to work?”

She blinks, and for a moment doesn’t argue.

“That goes double for you, Barton. I like the look, by the way.”

Clint glances down at himself and back up at Fury, obviously as surprised as Natasha. “We’re back on active duty?”

“Anybody there got any good reason you shouldn’t be?”

All eyes turn to Bruce, who shakes his head. “A little mental health leave wouldn’t be out of line, but they’re fine, medically speaking.”

Steve nods at that. "I should be freed up for active duty as well, Director, if your people need me."

“And me?” Tony demands. “Just to be clear, I’m free to go? I can ditch the chaperone bit?” Out of the corner of his eye, Tony catches Bruce’s form flaring bright again, and there’s something there that he ought to understand, but he can’t quite grasp it, and shifts his attention to Fury’s answer instead.

“You ask me you always needed a chaperone,” Fury answers in what is, for him, a playful tone, “but sadly my authority has its limits.”

“And my duty here is done?” Thor asks.

Fury nods. “You’re all free to go. But keep in touch. We may well need you again.”

With that the screen goes dark, and the seven of them are left to look around at one another. For a moment none of them speak.

Finally Tony makes an effort. “So… drinks all around?”

Thor laughs, but shakes his head. “Another time. I should return to Jane and see how she fares.”

“Yeah, OK, sure. Well, check out your floor first, if you feel like it. That goes for everybody.” He shrugs. It shouldn’t matter to him if they want to stay or not. They’ve all got lives and so does he, and this little interlude was… well, it was something, but it sure as hell wasn’t fun. Most of it, anyway. A little smile comes unbidden to his lips as he considers the most notable exception, but he banishes it quickly. If this is all over, that's probably for the best. “You know,” he continues, recognizing even as he speaks that his backpedaling is blatantly obvious to everybody in the room, “in case you ever need a place to crash in New York.”

Clint and Natasha give noncommittal answers. 

Tony gives Coulson a little slap on the shoulder. “You don’t have a floor yet, but I’ve got people working on it.”

Coulson looks him up and down, as though he’s trying to figure something out. “Thank you, but that’s really not necessary.”

“Don’t care. It’ll be there. If you want it. For whenever you’re in town. ‘Cause otherwise you’re going to be angling for one of my actual guest rooms in my apartment where I _live_ and a man needs some space…”

Coulson lets him trail off with a wry little grin that makes Tony feel as though he’s broadcasting desperation in every direction. He shuts up just in time for Steve to clasp his hand in a firm grip.

“Thanks for the offer. I’ll check it out.”

“Guaranteed to be better than S.H.I.E.L.D. quarters.”

“Yeah, but is it full of sand?”

Tony grins. “Play your cards right, it could be.”

Steve laughs and turns towards the elevator, where most of the others are already waiting for the car to arrive.

“Seriously, though, victory dinner?” Tony suggests. “Tomorrow, after we’ve had a chance to, y’know, sleep for a day or so.” He puts an arm over Clint’s shoulder and glances at Natasha, expecting her expression to forbid a similar gesture. But she just smiles, and he slings his other arm around to give her far shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “S.H.I.E.L.D. must be able to spare the wonder twins another day,” he suggests, and steps away to clap Thor on the back. “Bring Dr. Foster, I’d love to meet her.”

The elevator opens, and they file in, giving vague nods in answer. Tony stays behind and watches as the elevator door closes behind them. Once it has, he turns to see Bruce standing in the corridor to the guest rooms, his eyes on Tony. The instant he catches Tony's gaze he drops his own, and shifts his weight as if to turn away.

"I can, uh," he gestures vaguely down the corridor. "Look, I know you don't need me looking over your shoulder anymore, so I should really get going."

Oh. Tony blinks. It hasn’t really occurred to him that Bruce might leave. He seemed so _pleased_ with his room, and the floor, and the lab, even before the two of them…

Tony glances away. There are plenty of reasons Bruce would want to leave. His mind supplies seven or eight of them almost immediately, without even trying. It was stupid for him to think otherwise.

"Yeah, sure," he agrees, his tone carefully nonchalant. His mind races with ideas, arguments, anything he can say to keep Bruce from leaving. He could make a good case, propose some avenues of research, probably wheedle him into sticking around for a month or two.

But he knows better. If Bruce doesn't want to be here, doesn't want to stay with Tony, then whatever Tony does, sooner or later Bruce will go. And that being the case, sooner beats the hell out of later. So Tony takes an instant to make sure he can keep his voice casual before he continues. "Well, uh, stick around for the dinner tomorrow, you know, if you feel like it. Could be a good time.”

Bruce's head jerks down in a sharp nod, and he turns away fast and disappears down the hall almost before Tony can register the bright flare of his nerves.

Tony frowns and takes a couple of steps towards the corridor before he masters himself and stops. He draws in a deep, calming breath, turns back to the elevator, and takes it up to the penthouse alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this one. Hoping to get the next and final chapter done and up next weekend… (and then I’m going to have to remember what one does with free time when not writing/editing fic…. oh, who am I kidding, and then I’m going to get to work on my MBB fic)


	18. All's Well (well enough, anyway)

Pepper finally disconnects the last call with the city's emergency management center, and types out a quick email authorizing the financial department to cut a check to the city to deal with the damages in Washington Heights.

That done, she stands and stretches, toying with the idea of blowing off a few more meetings in favor of a long soak in the bath. She may not have done any of the fighting, but even so she had to watch it happen, keeping tabs and scrambling to inform the right people of every development. That kind of tension leaves its mark on a body as surely as physical exertion does.

She's nearly decided in favor of the bath, maybe with that lovely lilac bath gel she bought months ago and still hasn't found time to use, when JARVIS announces that Agent Coulson has arrived.

She takes a breath, draws herself up, and tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "Tell him to come on in."

She feels her face relax into a genuine smile when he comes through the door, his usual suit rumpled and covered with a thin layer of dirt, but his face bright with relief. "Phil," she greets him, grasping his hand for a quick squeeze. "Thank you for coming by so soon. I’m sure you’ve got plenty to do.”

“It’s been a busy day,” he agrees. “Thank you for your assistance. Your work coordinating with the emergency response people was invaluable."

“Glad to be of help.” She gestures him to a couple of comfortable chairs in one corner of her office. He sits, and she settles herself opposite him. “How's Natasha holding up?"

"Pretty well, I think, all things considered. It'll take some getting used to, but she's going to be fine."

"And the others?"

"It's been a rough day, but they made it through." He considers. "They're good for each other."

"Between you and me I think so too. That’s actually why I wanted to speak with you. You’re hoping they’ll stay in New York?”

“It would be convenient,” he agrees. “But for the moment, they don’t seem inclined to stick around.”

Pepper smiles at the sly undertone in his voice. She missed working with Phil. “About that. I’ve got a few ideas.”

~

Though he would very much like to make straight for New Mexico and his lady, Thor finds himself unable to refuse the invitation to view Steve's floor.

The space is much like the one that has housed them for the past weeks, but Steve's enthusiasm for the details is pleasant to see. Apparently many of the features date back to Steve's own era, particularly the gym, stocked with pendulous punching bags and an elevated space for sparring.

"I wonder where Tony got the idea for this. It looks just like a place I spent a lot of time in, when I first got here. To the future, I mean.” He shakes his head. “The present.”

Thor doesn’t miss the amendment, and privately he thinks it a good sign, and a welcome one. But when he speaks, he keeps to the topic Steve intended. "He is thoughtful with his wealth. An honorable trait."

"I feel a little guilty accepting it, to be honest. It's more than I could ever need. But...” Steve trails off, and regards the space around him with a wistful smile. He turns to Thor. “Want to see what he put together for you?”

“Another time. I have been long absent from Jane, and I would return to her as soon as I am able.”

Steve nods. “I can understand that. You coming back?”

Thor looks away. There’s too much hope in Steve’s face, and he doesn’t like to disappoint it. “For the celebration tomorrow, aye. But for good?” He shakes his head. “My lady is in New Mexico. My duties in Asgard take me from her too often already. The time I spend on Midgard, I would spend with her.”

“Sure,” Steve agrees easily. “Well, we can give you a call if we need you though, right?”

“Of course.” He grasps Steve’s arm with one hand and clasps his hand in the other. “I regret that I cannot be in both places. Ill circumstance aside, I have enjoyed the chance to come to know you better.”

“You too.” He claps Thor on the shoulder. “Have a nice flight.”

He does. The skies are clear for most of the way across the continent, and as he soars under the warm golden sun he delights in the crisp air and the feeling of freedom it lends him.

When he arrives outside of Jane’s trailer, she opens the door almost immediately, as if she were awaiting his arrival. He takes her into his arms and rejoices in her warmth, the gentle perfume of her hair, the rich tumble of her laugh.

“Your friends are safe?” she asks.

“They are.”

“Good.” She takes him by the hand and leads him inside, where they embrace again, more intimately.

When they have sufficiently reassured one another of their presence, and each found satisfaction in the other’s arms, they break apart again. She watches him with a pleasant look in her eye for a time, but then purses her lips. “You know that I have funding for my work, right? You don’t need to ask your friends for money.”

Thor frowns. “I do not know what you mean."

She reaches over to the beside table to find her StarkPhone, and brings up an electronic message to show him. He frowns as he reads it over.

“A grant offer?”

“A suspiciously generous one. From Stark Industries. And an invitation to use their satellite sensor arrays.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“So you didn’t tell Tony Stark to send this? A little favor between superheroes?”

“No.” He frowns. “To use their satellites… Would you do that from here?”

She shakes her head. “I’d have to go to New York.” She snorts. “Well, get to, really. New Mexico is wonderful, and the skies are perfect for terrestrial observation, but the equipment at S.I….” She gives a dreamy expression that Thor would have liked to think reserved for himself, but he knows better.

“You would like to go?”

Pride wars with temptation on her face. “Who am I kidding. Even if this is just because I’m dating an Avenger, that equipment…” Temptation vanquishes pride altogether, and she grins. “You’d rather be there anyway, wouldn’t you?”

He has to admit that he would.

~

Phil finds Barton and Romanoff perched on the counters in the kitchen of Clint’s floor.

Barton hops down as soon as Phil crosses the threshold, and fixes a tight smile on his face. “We headed out soon?”

“I’m in no hurry,” Phil tells him, looking around the room. It’s larger than the kitchen on Banner’s floor, and the scent of new paint suggests that the expansion is recent. “Nice touch.”

“Yeah,” Barton agrees. “Stark’s not exactly subtle about the whole stay-in-the-Tower thing.” He trails one finger over the handles sticking out of the knife block, and Phil doesn’t know the first thing about cooking, but something in the way that Barton regards them suggests that they're very good knives indeed.

Barton seems to catch his gaze, and snatches his hand back. “But I’m ready for active duty, Sir. Whenever we’re due on the helicarrier, I’ll be there.” The words seem to cost him, and Phil’s glad he has another option to broach.

“About that. You know that Fury’s been eager for the Avengers to gel as a team.”

Barton nods, and Romanoff watches with careful eyes.

“We’re recommending that the two of you use this as a home base, between missions.”

Barton brightens. Romanoff smiles a little at his expression, and looks back at Phil with gratitude in her face.

Phil holds up a finger. “One condition,” he continues before either of them can answer. “While you’re not on any active assignments, we’d like to send over trainees, have them work with both of you. I’ve checked with Stark Industries, and they’re willing to offer some additional space as trainee quarters. You’ll use the shooting range here and the gym on Romanoff’s floor.” He looks them both over, enjoying the cautious hope on Barton’s face and the gentle satisfaction on Romanoff’s. “We can’t afford to lose the chance to have you work with some of the more promising agents.”

“You sure ‘promising’ isn’t a euphemism for ‘pain in the ass,’ Sir?” Barton asks with a grin.

"The terms are not mutually exclusive," he answers with a fond glare.

Barton chuckles. "No, Sir." His face turns serious, but his smile remains. “I’d be glad to do it, Sir.”

Phil shifts his gaze to Romanoff, who snorts.

"You sure you want _me_ training baby S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, under the circumstances?"

"Yes."

Her eyes narrow and she folds her arms across her chest. "And is Fury sure too?"

"Yes" he tells her again, working to imbue his tone with the full strength of the confidence he feels.

She watches him for a moment more, and then allows her expression to soften. "OK."

"Good,” he approves. He glances around the kitchen for a moment and allows himself a small, satisfied nod. “I’ll leave you to settle in. I trust I’ll see you both at Stark’s victory dinner tomorrow?”

Romanoff smiles in answer, and Barton tosses off a sloppy salute. “Count on it, Sir.”

~

Bruce’s duffel bag takes under a minute to pack. When he left Greenland he brought one StarkPhone, two changes of clothing, four notebooks, a toothbrush, a thumb drive, and one little stub of a pencil. That’s all he’ll take with him when he leaves New York, too.

His bag thus packed, he pauses in the front room of his suite and allows himself a moment to peruse the books lining the walls. He hasn’t had the chance to enjoy them, but their presence alone has been a pleasant backdrop to the little time he’s spent in the suite.

He can’t really say it’s been a good couple of weeks. He’s got empathy enough to appreciate just how difficult it’s been for the rest of the team. But for him.... He shakes his head, and reminds himself that it would be cruel to regret that it’s over. Things ended for the best, and if that leaves him with no place here, well, welcome to your life, Banner.

He _could_ stay. By the sound of it the others are mostly leaving, but there’s no reason to think that Tony would demand back the floor—the lab and his room and the ridiculous Zen garden and the long, tempting bookshelves.

There’s no real reason to think that Tony wants him gone at all.

Not yet anyway.

He’s obviously irritated that Bruce has been playing chaperone, and he’s probably pissed as hell that Bruce gives a damn about what will happen to Baker in captivity, but those are things that Tony will get past. For all Bruce knows he’s over them already.

Which, really, is the problem. There’s no telling when Tony will be over anything in particular, including him. He thought, for a while there, that that was OK, that he’d have this—this place, this role, this life—as long it was something Tony wanted to give him, and when it ended he’d simply move on.

And then Tony made some stupid, offhand remark that he maybe didn’t even mean, that he wanted to ditch the “chaperone,” and Bruce could feel himself start to come apart at the seams.

He looks around the room, at the comfortable chairs, the state of the art displays, the stacks of journals picked out just for him, and he wants it all. Wants it almost as much as he wants to be rid of the other guy, almost as much as he wants to be with Tony.

And that’s why he can’t have it. Maybe, just maybe, the risk of a relationship could be worth taking. His control _is_ better, and he’s finally begun to believe that that part of his life doesn’t have to be over.

But with Tony, it would always be wrapped up in this place, in safety and stability and having someplace where he belongs, and all that together is too much. He could lose it all in one blow, and then— he takes a breath. What he’d be capable of then doesn’t bear thinking about.

So he’ll do the reasonable thing and remove himself from temptation. Maybe somebody at S.H.I.E.L.D. will give him a lift back to Greenland. Maybe if he leaves right now, he won’t have to say goodbye.

He shoulders his bag and makes it halfway to the door before he has to stop and take a breath and steel himself to continue. He’s still standing there, breathing carefully, when JARVIS informs him that he’s got a visitor.

He drops the bag and takes another step, not sure whether he hopes or fears that it’s Tony, but sure either way that Tony’s the one he expects on the other side of the door.

When he palms it open, though, he’s greeted by Pepper Potts.

It shouldn’t be as strange as it is, to see her in person. Of course he knows that she remains close to Tony. He knows she’s been staying in the Tower, helping out, since Tony’s transformation, and that in any case she would be here often in the course of her job. Still, he himself has seen her only on the news and in the occasional tabloid, so it’s easy to tell himself that meeting her in the flesh is what threw him—not that it’s her at his doorstep, instead of Tony.

He recovers quickly, and offers a friendly smile and an outstretched hand. “Ms. Potts.”

She shakes his hand with a smile of her own. “Dr. Banner. Pleased to meet you, finally.”

He glances back into the sitting room. “Do you, uh, want to come in?”

“Thank you, yes.” She walks in and sits as if she owns the place, which, he reflects, she more or less does.

He moves to sit opposite her, carefully studying her face for any sign of what she's doing here.

She glances at the duffle bag on the floor. "Going someplace?"

He nods, but doesn't elaborate.

"In that case I'm glad I caught you. I was hoping we could talk about your plans."

Bruce's eyes narrow slightly, still at a loss. "Why?"

She goes straight to the point. “Because I’d like to offer you a job.”

Bruce blinks. “Why?” he asks again.

“As I’m sure you know, Stark Industries has been branching out. One of those areas is medical research. Specifically, we’d like to put some money into medical interventions for radiation poisoning." She meets his eyes. "I'm told you’re the foremost expert on the subject.”

He’s been tense since she arrived, but her brisk offer, made in a confident tone, like it’s an ordinary business proposal and not a shamelessly obvious trap, makes his skin itch and his chest tighten. He takes a careful breath. “Ms. Potts, this will go better if you’re straight with me. What do you want?”

She studies him carefully. “This is a real offer, Bruce. You’d have a generous salary, a lab, a budget, staff if you want them, and all the time you need.” She doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t explain her motivations, doesn’t say one thing to convince him that this is anything but a trap.

He aches to accept it anyway. She couldn’t have come up with something more carefully calibrated to tempt him if she’d been trying. Which he very much suspects that she was. “Did Tony—?”

“No,” she answers quickly. “He doesn’t even know about it.”

“It’s his company.”

She chuckles. “Can you imagine him actually reviewing staffing proposals?"

He has to admit that he can't.

He takes a breath and tries to find in himself the resolve that got his bag packed, that very nearly got him to the door and out. “I appreciate the offer, Ms. Potts. I do.” In spite of his suspicions, he finds that he means it. “But I need to go. I’m not safe here.”

“You’re safer here than anyplace else in the world. You’ll have Stark Industries and S.H.I.E.L.D. both backing you up. Not to mention Tony and the other Avengers. Nobody’s going to touch you.”

He shakes his head. “Not what I meant. I can’t afford to—“ His lips curve in a sad smile, and when he speaks, it’s more than he intends to say. “It won’t last. And when it doesn’t… I won’t be safe to be around.”

She doesn’t answer right away, and the way her bright smile dims tells him that she’s taking him seriously. “It’s your choice. Me, I’m selfish. Tony and I aren’t— of course you know we’re not together anymore, but he’s still—“ her smile returns to full force for a moment, “well, he’s still Tony. He’s still infuriating and incredible and very important to me. And you’ve saved his life twice now.” She stands, shifts her briefcase to one hand, and takes a couple of steps towards the door before turning back to him and smiling again. “You asked why, and there are other reasons, but that’s the real one. You'd be good for him, and not just when he’s falling out of the sky. But whatever happens between the two of you, the job offer stands.”

She leaves before he can formulate a response, and in her wake he finds himself standing in the center of the room, eyes shifting between the door and his bag and back again.

He believes her about the job offer, and her reasons for making it too. That the bait was so well chosen says that she's very good at what she does. That she offered it with Tony in mind tells him that she's loyal, and hints that Tony deserves that kind of loyalty. Maybe even that Tony shares it, that even if things don't work out with him, it wouldn't have to be a disaster between them.

He laughs, and it sounds bitter and sad in his own ears. That particular logic is stretched far beyond the breaking point, and even he knows better than to believe it.

He forces himself to bend and pick up the duffel. It's light. Everything he owns in the world, and it feels like nothing in his hands.

He gives the shelves one last wistful look, and for an instant he's tempted to take a few things with him. A couple of the most recent journals. One of the better references. The silly little kid's book that Tony picked out just for him.

He shakes his head. What he needs is a clean break. Souvenirs will only remind him of everything he's leaving behind.

He keeps his breathing carefully steady as he makes his way out the door and to the elevator. His finger hovers over the down button, but when he jabs an arrow it's the up one.

With all Tony's done for him, he deserves an honest goodbye at least.

JARVIS allows him into the penthouse, and he stands uncertainly in the foyer for a moment. He's just opened his mouth to ask JARVIS where Tony is when the man himself appears in the doorway.

They stand silently for a minute, and Bruce lets himself take in the sight of Tony, his sharp eyes and wry expression set off by the flicker of electricity playing over his face.

Bruce realizes that, as the person who came here in the first place, he's the one expected to broach the conversation. "Thank you for— for everything,” he manages. “It— well, thank you.” He takes a breath and presses on. “But you're fine now, and I'm sure you don't want— and anyway, it's best for me to keep a low profile, minimize personal connections. I can't afford— well, you know my situation. I'm hardly in a position to, uh, date." He blinks, swallows. Really, it isn't like dating was necessarily on the table to begin with. If there's one thing his life should have taught him, it's to know better than to presume. "I have work to do in Greenland. So I'm going to head out, maybe grab a ride with Coulson, and, uh…"

Bruce looks away, unable to continue. When he finally wrenches his gaze back to Tony’s face, Tony’s eyes narrow, regarding him with a hard skepticism which is somehow emphasized by the increasingly frantic speed of the lights playing over his skin.

"You don't want to leave." It isn't a firm statement of fact, but it's not a question either. It sounds as though Tony's testing the sound of it on his lips, like a hypothesis he hasn't yet tested.

The words go straight to the ache in Bruce’s chest, and he has to swallow around the lump forming in his throat. He tries to affirm that he does want to go, or at least that he needs to, but when his lips part he manages to force out just one word. “No.”

It hangs in the air for a moment, and then suddenly Tony’s arms wrap around him, and his lips press against Bruce’s own. Bruce can feel Tony’s frantic heartbeat steady, and for a long moment he can’t imagine having the desire, or even the ability, to break away from the embrace.

When they finally do, Tony watches him, lights dancing over his expression of deep, careful concentration. On him, on Bruce, and nothing else. “Stay?” he asks. "It doesn't have to be— we can figure things out. I know that I— but I can— Whatever you need. Just... stay. For now."

Bruce tries one last time to refuse, to say a proper goodbye and go, but there's nothing left in him that wants that, no part of him that isn't overcome by the temptation to stay. To try this, whatever it turns out to be. "Yeah," he agrees. "I'd like that."

Tony's face lights up in a grin, the bright sparks on his skin making the description more literal than usual. Bruce has only a moment to bask in Tony's delight before he draws them together again, skin to skin. They stay that way for a long time.

~

Steve spends most of the next day out in the city, assisting in the emergency response. Casualties have been blessedly minimal, but the damage to infrastructure is going to take time to repair.

He spends more time signing autographs and glad-handing volunteers than actually working, but he grits his teeth and reminds himself that, super strength or no, his value as a symbol outweighs his value clearing debris. At least this time nobody’s dying in his place while he’s smiling for the cameras.

He’s just extricated himself from an attempted interview when his phone gives the little beep that indicates a message. He pulls the thing out of his pocket and flicks it on to find a short reminder from Tony that he’s expecting everyone for dinner at eight.

Steve frowns and wonders idly if the others will show. He knows they’ve all got lives to get back to, one way or another, and maybe the past couple of weeks have been as much team bonding as any of them want.

He tells himself that his regret at the thought is entirely professional. And he does think that they work together better now than they did before, that they’d be better still if they had the chance to keep working together under better circumstances. But whatever power he has as nominal team leader, he knows damn well that it doesn’t extend to dictating their living situation, and he isn’t about to try.

Still, he holds out hope that they’ll at least come to the victory dinner that Tony was so intent on.

He showers and changes into fresh clothing by seven-thirty, and dawdles until eight on the dot before calling the elevator to head up to the penthouse. If Tony’s worried that the others might not come, the least Steve can do is get there on time.

But when he steps into Tony’s lounge, it’s immediately clear that he didn’t have to worry about being the first one there. He makes a soft coughing noise, and Tony and Bruce break apart. Bruce takes a stumbling step away, looking anywhere but at Steve.

“So, fashionably late,” Tony smirks, “not so much a thing in the forties?”

Steve stiffens, his embarrassment momentarily overtaken by irritation. He stifles it and studies the ceiling. “I can come back,” he offers.

“Don’t let him make you feel bad for getting here on time.” Ms. Potts’—Pepper’s—voice comes from behind him, and he realizes that she must have just arrived. “If he can’t keep track of his schedule it’s his own fault.” She strides into the room, heels producing crisp little clicks against the floor, and places a warm hand on his shoulder. “It’s good to see you, Steve.” She glances at Bruce, who still looks as if he’s trying to sink into the floor. “And you too, Bruce.”

Tony gives a pointed cough, and she crosses the room to kiss his cheek. “Always glad to see you alive and conscious.”

“And not making too much trouble?” he finishes for her.

“I try not to hope for the impossible.” She turns to Bruce. “On the subject of my hopes, though, do you have an answer on that job yet, Bruce?”

“I, uh,” he blinks, and then a smile speeds across his face. "Yeah. I'd like to take you up on that."

She grasps his hand in a firm handshake. "Welcome to Stark Industries, Dr. Banner."

Tony's head swivels between the two of them. "What just happened?"

"I became gainfully employed." Bruce watches Tony's reaction, a little sparkle of amusement in his eye.

A clap on his shoulder distracts Steve from the warm banter between the three of them.

"Captain!” Rhodes’ sounds pleased to see him.

“Colonel,” he returns offering a hand to clasp.

Rhodes grasps it warmly. “Please, call me Rhodey.”

Steve smiles. “Only if you call me Steve. I hear you were busy yesterday.”

“Weren’t we all?”

Steve feels a heavy weight in his chest, thinking of the damage done. But this is supposed to be a celebration, and he refuses to bring down the mood. “What were you up to?"

Rhodes snorts. “They had me dealing with this rogue botanist up in Montpelier.”

Steve tries to process that one, but before he can come up with a response Natasha steps off the elevator.

“A rogue botanist?” she asks, one perfect brow arched.

“Trust me,” he tells her, “you don’t want to know.”

She smirks, and her eyes move up and down, taking him in. “Looks like you came out unscathed.”

“You too.”

Steve winces and watches for Natasha’s reaction, but if anything her smile grows warmer. Steve knows better than to think he can read her, but to his eyes, she really does look pleased. And possibly, he realizes a beat later, interested in a slightly more private conversation with Rhodes.

Steve excuses himself with a nod and makes his way to the bar, where Clint stands, fixing some kind of drink for himself and Coulson.

“Manhattan?” Clint suggests, holding up the cocktail shaker.

Steve nods and accepts the drink with a little murmur of thanks. “I hear you're going to be training agents around here.”

“Only the ones who are a pain in Coulson’s ass.” He grins, and for a moment Steve thinks he can see a little of Clint’s old tan under the elegant gray of his skin.

“Well, that’ll suit you. Maybe I could lend a hand, from time to time.”

Coulson gives a pleased nod at the suggestion. “We’d appreciate that.”

The door to the roof bursts open, and Thor strides in, a petite woman who must be Dr. Foster at his side. Steve moves to greet her, but Tony gets there first, sweeping in with Bruce in tow to barrage her with questions about what Steve assumes is her research.

Steve grabs Thor’s hand instead. “Glad you made it.”

“I am pleased to be here. And it seems that I will be here more often—Jane received a most generous offer to continue her research in New York.”

Pepper slides in and greets Thor, who takes her hand and kisses it.

“Do I have you to thank for Jane’s good fortune?” Thor asks, with a hint of suspicion that Steve finds a little out of place in his voice.

“Actually I have _you_ to thank. I’m embarrassed to say that she might not have come to our attention if I hadn’t been looking into you, but now that she has—“ Pepper nods towards Dr. Foster, Tony, and Bruce, all three of whom seem to be talking at once, but still somehow understanding one another. “Let's just say that Stark Industries is going to do our best to keep her in the family."

Thor laughs. "A wise choice, if she's interested. Which certainly seems to be the case."

Clint, who Steve only now realizes must have snuck out of the room when Thor arrived, lets out a piercing whistle. "Soup's on. Come eat."

Pepper gives Tony a playful smack on the shoulder. "You have one of your guests making dinner?"

"He likes it!" Tony turns to Clint. "Tell her you like slaving away in the kitchen."

"He kind of does," Natasha agrees.

"I kind if do," Clint admits.

Tony claps him on the back. "I am going to miss you when Agent here absconds with you to the unfriendly skies."

"We're staying," Clint tells him.

"And using your tower to train baby agents," Natasha adds with a smirk. "How do you not know about that?"

Tony's gaze flicks to Bruce, and who seems to be engaged in a failing battle to keep a goofy smile from his face.

"I’ve been a little busy." 

It sounds more like a boast than an admission to Steve, but the way the two of them are looking at each other, Steve can't really blame him.

Tony glances to Thor. "And you're tagging along with your brilliant better half?"

"I would be pleased to accept your hospitality while I am in Midgard, if I am still welcome.”

“Yeah, sure. Just don’t, y’know, wreck the place.” Tony surveys all of them with what almost manages to be a stern glare. “That goes for everybody.” He turns and leads the way into the dining room, prattling as he goes. “You’re all here on sufferance. And nobody’s allowed in the lab unless you’ve got at least two PhDs. Or a couple hundred IQ points. Or if you come bearing food.” On that last he claps Clint on the back and they disappear into the dining room.

Bruce follows on their heels, still chatting avidly with Dr. Foster, and Natasha locks eyes with Rhodey and the two of them head in as well. Pepper takes Thor by the arm and guides him along after the others, leaving Steve and Coulson standing in the lounge. 

“After everything,” Coulson notes quietly as they head for the dining room themselves, “they’re looking good.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees as they cross the threshold to see all of them settling themselves around the table, grabbing food and cracking jokes and sharing contented laughter. “We are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er, did I say there was just one chapter left? Ahem, _obviously_ what I meant was one chapter and an epilogue. *shifty eyes* But they're both going up today.


	19. Epilogue

Maria’s day starts badly. She’s awoken at four in the morning—just three short hours after she made it to her bunk—to deal with an administrative fuck-up that should never have been her problem to begin with.

The mess is still slinging yesterday’s stale coffee by the time she gets there, and the night rations have mostly congealed into an unappetizing mess that she can’t bring herself to touch.

It’s obviously one of those mornings that’s going to go wrong in every way it can, so when she arrives on the bridge she isn’t surprised to find all hell threatening to break loose. The agents on the night shift move from display to display, sharing snippets of information in tense tones, and Agent Sitwell’s quick nod of greeting comes with a strained smile.

She takes a breath and draws herself together. “Report.”

“We’ve got an incident brewing down in D.C. Looks like it could be Doom.”

She fixes him with her hardest stare. “I swear to God that if this is a prank, you are going to be personally testing the very, _very_ early prototypes of R &D’s new parachutes.”

He swallows. “No joke.”

“Have you informed Fury?”

Only then does she hear the footsteps behind her. “He just did.”

She turns to see that Fury’s face isn’t as grim as it might have been.

“Do you think it’s too early to call in the Avengers, Sir? It’s only been a couple of days since…”

“No, I think it’s a perfect time to call them in.”

She nods and turns to the agent on running the communications system. “Get me Captain Rogers.”

“Yes, Sir,” she agrees, and a moment later he appears on screen, dripping with sweat. Behind him, Romanoff, Barton, and Thor pause in their sparring and join him in giving her their full attention.

Good.

She has Sitwell give a rundown on what they know so far, and no sooner does Doom’s name cross his lips than Rogers opens up another line to bring Stark onto the call.

“Seriously this time?” Stark cracks. “Because if this is another decoy—“

Behind him, Banner points to what Maria assumes is a display, and the two of them shift to examine the schematics Sitwell sent over.

Stark’s eyes fly over it, and an instant later he nods. “OK, yeah, it’s him.” Lights flicker across his face as he glances to Banner, and then turns back to the display. “This is gonna be fun.”

Rogers snorts, but by the look on his face he’s looking forward to the fight as well. Thor lifts his hammer and gives in a swing, while Barton stretches theatrically and Romanoff’s lips curl in a sly grin. 

“Thanks for the intel, Ma’am. We’ll take it from here.” He gives a little salute, and turns back to his team, already making plans as the connection shuts off.

Maria's day is looking better already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s all, folks! So many thanks to everyone who’s been reading, and especially everybody who left comments! It’s been incredibly fun writing this fic, and I never would have gotten through it if I didn’t know people were reading and (at least sometimes) enjoying it. You are awesome!

**Author's Note:**

> Hoping to update weekly, or at a minimum fortnightly. But best laid plans and all, so we’ll see.
> 
> Concrit always welcome.


End file.
